


Changelings

by 1Boo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, Dysfunctional Family, I memorized the Black family tree for this fic, Lily Evans is a Queen, Lycanthropy Induced Angst, M/M, Marauders, Moaning Myrtle has an Elvis obsession don't tell me different, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Slow Build, Warning for occasional use of google translate welsh, Welsh Character, beginnings of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1Boo/pseuds/1Boo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they were Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, before they formed Hogwarts’ own unofficial Werewolf pack, before they became the youngest Animagi ever unknown, and before they were soldiers in a clandestine and doomed Order, they were boys with secrets and a love for things that glowed in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A note on vernacular: Some of the characters (like Remus and Lily) grew up around at least a few Muggles and use the same exclamations and swear words, but people like the Blacks, who wouldn’t know a refrigerator if it fell on their face, are more likely to reference the stars, Merlin, the Founders, or witch burnings (i.e. “Burn it!” instead of “Damn it!”).

There's a hole in the world like a great black pit  
and the vermin of the world inhabit it  
and its morals aren't worth what a pig can spit  
and it goes by the name of London.

-Sweeney Todd, “No Place Like London"

 

He wants out of Islington. It’s too dark in the nighttime, when even the candles in his father’s study have gone out, and his mother has finally been tempted to bed. He hopes she won’t wake up at the sound of his footsteps to roam the halls of Grimmauld Place, raving and shouting, spittle on her lips.

There is a window on the end of the hall after Regulus’s room. Its drapes are almost too heavy and ancient for a seven-year-old to claw away from the window, but Sirius is stubborn. He’ll own this house someday, won’t he? He should be able to do what he likes with the furniture.

The cobwebs which have stitched the curtains together rip apart in perfect silence. Sirius reaches for the rusting latch, encrusted with an onyx, and forces it open. Flakes of rust float upwards and pepper his waxy skin. All Blacks look the same, except for a few of his cousins. Dark hair, pale skin, gray eyes spinning with something a bit inbred, a bit mad.

Even at seven, Sirius knows he would run forever if it meant he could escape that madness.

He thinks he hears a sound in his mother’s room below the floorboards and freezes. Of course, Sirius would rather be caught by Mother than Father or Kreacher, when it comes down to it. They’re quicker than Mother with the curses, nowadays.

He pushes open the window and his palms come away black with grime. There is no horizon, just the tower block that abuts the garden. Orange and pink lights, Soho’s calling card, are just barely visible in the London smog if Sirius climbs half out of the window and stands on the cracked ledge, black hair whipping in the wind. He feels like a gargoyle, so he braces his hands on the crumbling windowsill and arches outwards.

Sirius breathes, just to hear it whistle through his lips. Sometimes if you spend too much time in Grimmauld Place, or Islington, you are apt to feel like you can’t fill your lungs.

And then you go mad.

It is 1967, and somewhere the last stragglers of a protest are breaking up. Sirius can still hear them, but whatever Muggle cause they’re chanting for is lost on him. Only half the words make sense.

Sirius itches to be with them. He doesn’t care what he would be marching for, just that he would be going somewhere with a lot of people who agreed with him.

The heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black could never do such a thing.

He cranes his neck a little to see over the tower block that’s placed opposite their back garden, its occupants oblivious to the hidden Grimmauld Place. From what he can see of the sky, it’s as if Soho is burning. The light it sends up into the smog is ominous, but it is light. Sirius needs light. Sometimes, when he’s in the basement, he thinks he might run into fiendfyre if it meant seeing light again.

In four years, Sirius Black will be out of Islington; better yet, out of London. He knows it, his family knows it, and even the crummy old house knows it.

Sirius kicks the ledge and sends a little fall of loose cement and dust down, down to the garden below.

His cousins have all told him about that castle up in Scotland, of course. Mostly, they bore of explaining it to him within minutes, but Andromeda gets all wistful about how fresh the Hogwarts air is.

Sirius scoffed at the time, but in truth he hates London air. Some part of him thinks all of London carries the mould and poison smell of Grimmauld Place. So, maybe Scotland air would be an improvement.

Four years is too long to contemplate. Here, hanging in the window, testing the trellis with one foot, it seems as far away as death. He can be in Golden Square in twenty minutes if he runs. Soho is still London, but a different kind of London. Sirius really, firmly believes that even if the world goes black and the seas boil and everyone falls to insanity, the lights of Soho will never go out.

He once told this to his Uncle Alphard, before he learned that Blacks do not trust others with their secrets, even other Blacks. Normally his uncle understands. This time though, he stared away from Sirius and murmured about wars and blackouts and something called a blitz, and evil men – wizards and Muggles alike. Uncle Alphard knows things, but that time he’d just said “Of course, Sirius. But be careful in Soho,” and patted Sirius’s knee.

Heirs do not have blankets or stuffed animals to cuddle when they cannot sleep. Soho has been Sirius’s nightlight ever since he spied it lighting up the clouds.

Sirius nestles both feet on the trellis by the window, hands clutching the crumbling sill. The trellis seems to be holding up. There used to be a honeysuckle vine wedded with the wood, but one afternoon Bellatrix dug up its roots and carefully slit each of them lengthwise with a kitchen knife, until it looked like the garden had been struck with some strange and disturbing disease.

The trellis is a little less stable without the vine, but Sirius swings his entire body onto it anyway. It bends and cracks, but does not betray him. He grins against the bricks of Grimmauld Place, and they brush dirt on his lips. Sirius is very lucky.

He is already a meter down before he sees the curtains flapping in the open window, like a bat’s wings above his head. They are terrible to look at. He remembers, too late, that Regulus tends to wake up whenever there’s a draft in the house. But he’s six now, has been since April, and maybe he’ll sleep sounder.

Sirius is not going to hang there in the dark forever, clinging onto a trellis still shot through with bit of dead vine, waiting for his brother’s face to appear in the billowing curtains. There are lights waiting for him, and the crowded sidewalks of Soho, where even a seven-year-old wizard in robes of the darkest azure can walk unnoticed if he’s clever about it.

Sirius’s feet hit soil and he hops down. As much as he loves the jailbreaks that are his night-time flights from Grimmauld Place, Sirius scowls when he thinks of what comes next.

He’d rather take the front door, of course, and walk out right under their noses. That’s no longer an option. Mother has found out about his wanderings, and has sealed the front door thoroughly. The wards are probably simple enough, but he’d need a wand to ever find his way through them. Sometimes Blacks get their wands a little young, but Mother and Father don’t trust Sirius just yet.

He refuses to admit that they may have good reason.

The tiny back garden is walled in on all sides with high fences and higher shrubbery, and the tower block across the way. It feels like standing in the bottom of a pit. The trick to Grimmauld Place is that it is designed to keep people out – not keep little boys in.

Sirius hates – really hates – the new escape rout. It is a hole he’s dug behind the dormant Venemous Tentacula, and leads under the fence. It is the type dogs dig, and he has to lie down on his stomach to squirm to freedom, flailing in the earth. It is humiliating, but as much as Sirius hates any blows to his pride, he hates pits and prisons much, much more.

So it is a dirty, scratched, and moody seven-year-old Sirius Black who strikes out on the London pavement, drawn to the only light he can see from the gaping windows of Grimmauld Place.

Sometimes, everything is about a light in the darkness. Everything. One learns this quickly in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

They’re playing some song in Soho, and it’s spilling out the door of some place called The Intrepid Fox . Sirius can’t figure out all the lyrics, but it’s something fast about a jailhouse.

Sirius wants to kick something, break Father’s chess set that’s been passed down in perfect condition since 1386, get into a screaming fight with Regulus, scream himself.

There are only neon lights here in Soho, and Muggles everywhere. He can’t see the stars. The only place Sirius has ever seen them was a garden party at Malfoy Manor, where everything smelled like heather and roses. Andromeda would love it, all that nice-smelling air. He hates Andromeda, and even Cissy and Bella, because most of them are at Hogwarts now, that fabled castle in the North, and Sirius is in London, far from even the safety and familiarity of Diagon or Knockturn.

It will be four years trapped in Grimmauld Place, trying to please his parents when he really, really doesn’t want to but really, really has to. Sirius Black has never seen anyone stand up to Walburga and Orion Black. He assumes anyone who did would be sent to St. Mungo’s in a sack, with a bill for their relatives. Mrs. Black’s time is valuable.

Sirius does his best to be good, and when that fails he tries to do as he pleases, but they know how Sirius likes his light. They know it, and they have a very dark cellar.

Just thinking about it sends Sirius running all the way to the Thames without stopping. He nearly vomits on one of the Muggle beggars from the exertion before he catches his breath. The air is colder by the river, burns going down, but it smells like things are moving here, and there are lights on the water.

Behind him is the alien circus of Soho, the more stately old buildings on either side, the fancy tower blocks, the museums, London halved by the river. Water and rats on the banks.

Lights on the water.

Even this fabled school, this Scottish castle that rises out of the forest, would be dark this time of night. Even in fairy tale places like Hogwarts, there are nights unbroken by the faintest light. Every place, person, thing, has its darker side ready for the worthy and the trained to navigate as they please. Understanding this is what it means to be a Black. That is the payment he gives to live as royalty in his world.

Sirius feels like he cannot breathe. It’s not worth it, he thinks for the first time. The rot of madness seems tangible, throbbing in his stomach, behind his eyes. The other families, they don’t just whisper it in jealousy. He can feel it there. He presses his palms into his eye sockets, then takes them away and looks at the sight before him.

Someone has smashed the light and flung it carelessly out onto the Thames.


	2. In which a summer ends

"Sing a song of sixpence,  
A pocket full of Rye,  
Four and twenty Naughty Boys,  
Baked into a Pye"

\- Tommy Thumb's Pretty Songbook, published 1744

James Potter is twelve, and possibly the king of the world. He feels such, anyway, because it is narrowing down on the last hours of the summer hols, and his mother has been bringing him tea and pasties about every twenty minutes for the past four hours. Now, she is coming again up the pasture, only this time it’s with a letter.

Lazily, James rolls over in the grass – narrowly missing a half-eaten jam donut – and tries to make out the handwriting on the envelope as his mother draws closer. Her arthritis must be acting up, despite the potions. Her steps are a little unsure, slow and stiff, but she hardly seems to notice.

Ten feet away Mum holds up the letter like an announcement, and squinting through his glasses James can make out the handwriting, if not the words.

The letter can’t be from Sirius, because he writes in what he swears isn’t calligraphy but can’t be that far off, all the strange curls and loops and flourishes. It’s not Peter either; he writes large (a year of McGonagall’s essays will do that to a man). Unless someone’s sent him another love letter, and the lack of a soft pink envelope suggests it’s not, it’s from Remus.

And it had better not be a love letter.

Well, good man then. James has hardly heard from Remus all summer. Not that Remus is ever chatty – that would be like expecting Sirius to stop brooding when the mail came with a family crest, or Peter to defect and take up with Snivellus. These things just didn’t happen.

It’s that Remus-y silence again. The secretive one. Only he and Sirius and Peter can recognize it. James really thought they’d cured Remus of all this in their first glorious year at Hogwarts. But over the summer it’s felt like Remus is trying to draw away from them again, the same way he had those first long weeks of befriending him. But…maybe you never know, with Remus. James wrinkles his nose. He prefers knowing.

“Thanks, Mum” he says as she reaches his throne of meadow grass and hands over the letter. While he studies it, she raises his dirty dishes with a flick of her wand. James, halfway through tearing open the letter with one skinny, jam besmeared finger, realizes that his half-eaten donut has gone with the dishes.

“Mum! Wait, Mum,” he cries desperately searching the air among the plates for a hint of strawberries and glazed sugar. From his vantage point, all the plates seem to be floating in the sky, jostling the clouds. It’s very blue behind them. This is one of those days when even housekeeping magic seems grand and beautiful.

Not that he’d ever say it.

“What’s the matter, James?” his Mum calls back. She’s recently stopped calling him “Jamesy”, on his request. It adds to the satisfaction of the day.

“The jam donut, Mum. My beautiful, beautiful jam donut. Where has it gone?”

She just smiles and says, “You’ll fill up for tea.” It is one of her sterner moments. James knows he could get it back if he really tried, but it is still summertime, and the grass is warm (though it smells suspiciously like some cow dung is nearby, but that’s Devon for you) and he has a letter with which to entertain himself.

“I am wounded by this lack of jam donut!” he howls, startling a flock of blackbirds out of a tree on the edge of the meadow. He listens for his mother’s laugh before he unfolds Remus’s letter.

His mum limps away humming that Muggle song about blackbirds, the plates floating behind her, bright and round like daytime moons. His mum’s got no voice for singing, but James lies still and leaves Remus’s letter unread. He listens.

“Blackbird fly...! Blackbird fly...! Into the light of the dark black night.”

Bit of a girly song. And it’s too sad; it doesn’t fit summertime in Devon, the hot sunshine, the warm parchment in his fingers, with a bit of owl slobber on. There is no darkness, James is sure, anywhere in the world.

_James Potter_   
_Godric’s Hollow_   
_Devon, England_

_James,_

_I found the dungbombs before they went off, thank you very much._

_I hope you’ve had a nice summer and are not driving your Mum insane. It must be sunny in the South. Lucky you! It’s been rainy and cold up here – something to do with the mountains, and living in mountains, and Wales being a generally miserable place. Apparently they’re bad for sunshine and days on the beach, these mountains._

_Though it’s really not so terrible._

_I haven’t heard from Sirius, but Peter’s owled me descriptions of a seaside holiday._

_Remus J. Lupin_

James feels…thoughtful, which isn’t his usual reaction to lacklustre letters. There goes Remus, rambling about the weather and the mountains and all that nonsense. James Potter may not have been raised in the strict style of the Blacks, but he has been schooled in the art of Very Bland But Inoffensive Topics For Every Situation. He is British after all. As much as James has done his best to forget any and all etiquette, he can spot evasion in the form of weather chatter from a mile away.

Of course, it is always difficult to be certain that there are real secrets being kept from him here. Thinking from Remus’s perspective, there may be a lot his friend simply doesn’t feel like talking about, like his sick Mum or Sirius’s family. James guesses he understands the second, at least. They’d all been privy to Sirius’s volatile, violent mood on the train back to King’s Cross at the end of term.

Of all of them, it was only Remus who hadn’t suggested that maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as Sirius was expecting. He just stared quietly out the window at the sprawl of London and adjusted all their Muggle clothes to make them just a little more believable. Sirius had almost cracked a smile when Remus tossed Peter’s turban out the window. This is what Remus does.

James flops back with a dramatic sigh, wriggles a bit in the grass, and stares at the blue sky instead of Remus’s careful handwriting. It just stands out to him, the same way all those “challenging” Transfigurations are so obvious. The words are awkward and feel painstakingly chosen. It does have a bit of Remus’s dry wit showing through, but James didn’t know how much dry wit twelve-year-olds are really supposed to be allotted, and how much less suspicion it should earn them.

Friends don’t keep secrets from each other, right?

As lazily as possible – it is the last day of summer – he thinks of Remus shivering his arse off somewhere in the wild mountains of Wales. Couldn’t his parents move to Cardiff? Just as Welsh, but much more Southern, sunny (relatively, anyway), and best of all, just across the channel.

James plucks at the grass, tossing it in the still, sweet air. The blackbirds have settled again. He misses his wand. All it took was one exploding hay bale, and whoosh! Goodbye wand. James makes a flapping motion with his arms, attempting to convey this event to the general vicinity. But of course, he’ll see both the wand and Remus Lupin tomorrow on the Platform in London, with all his other friends.

Maybe in celebration he’ll put frog spawn in Marlene McKinnon’s hair. She goes all Scottish when she’s screaming at him. It’s a good bit of fun.  
James rolls over onto his stomach and smoothes out his frown. He is sure frowns aren’t becoming, unless you’re Sirius Black. Not according to James of course, Merlin no, it’s the girls who say it. Like Marlene.

Frog spawn is definitely imminent.

Secondly, it’s just a letter from the Rather Private Mr. Lupin. If he has any secrets, they could all wear him down in a matter of days. James is absolutely confident.

So on that glorious afternoon, the end of the summer of ’72, twelve-year-old James Potter falls asleep in the sticky smell of meadow grass, glasses askew, a few tiny grass moths fluttering about his nose, where there is a smudge of something strawberry-flavoured. He sneezes, and the blackbirds startle again, swooping in the Devonshire sky.

 

The Black family marches in close formation through King’s Cross and across the barrier, flanking their eldest son. Their shoes are all French and Italian, from Father’s loafers to Narcissa’s heels to Regulus’s little boots. The hard soles crack against the stones. Master and Mistress Black have mouths pinched too thin, and Orion’s hand is clamped on Sirius’s shoulder. Regulus just looks scared.

Everyone who knows anything about Wizarding society hurries to make room for the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Sirius cannot see outside the tight circle of his family, but he can read his Mother’s face; when she catches someone in the crowd smirking behind a hand, he can tell. But she is built of stone and ice and madness, this woman. She can take it. Regulus’s hands are shaking. He is being forced too close to Bellatrix.

Sirius wants to spit, preferably in someone’s face. Not Regulus’s. Maybe Regulus’s, for going along with it when Sirius knows he doesn’t like it.  
It is Sirius who is the shame of the family, official for a year now. The whole summer has just been weeks and weeks of Those Bad Days, when he and Regulus have to crouch on the stairs, even though Reg really can’t stand the severed heads mounted on the wall, and listen to the pitch of voices below, to try to decide if it was safe to venture into the dining room.

A wrong guess can lead to an hour in the basement. Regulus always makes all the right guesses, and Sirius is always too headstrong to follow them.

They have forbidden Regulus from sitting with him on the train, or talking to his low class friends, or his blood traitor friends, or his poor, low class, halfblood friends – the last title belonging Remus. Regulus hasn’t dared to look at Sirius since.

It feels a bit like he missed summertime. When they all left school the days were rushing along, bright and hot and long, almost reaching their summertime peak. Then it was three months in Grimmauld Place, with the only lights painting the cloudy sky in the night-time. Sirius is glad, in a begrudging, raging way, for the sun through the skylights on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. September sunlight is brighter than he’d thought it would be.

He cranes his neck, searching for familiar faces, but his family’s shoulders rise too tall.

All he can see are the skylights, and the sunlight glaring in his face, a taste of freedom. He is so close to being rid of most of them, even if it is just for a train ride. Cissy will be at Hogwarts, with no Andromeda to keep Narcissa and her friends in check. He is glad he never had to go to school with Bella, but angry at the same time. It would have been a good chance to hex her.

He wonders, briefly, where Andromeda is. She isn’t part of the guard around him. Always good at slithering out of things she doesn’t like to do, Andromeda is.

Sirius does not slither, but he has to find his own way out of this strange guard. He jerks out of his father’s grip, ducks automatically (though surely even the Blacks wouldn’t curse their own son on the crowded platform?) and shoves past Narcissa, because even he isn’t reckless enough to shove Bellatrix.

Twice in an hour, anyway.

Narcissa’s wand is knocked out of her hand and she scrambles after it. Sirius ignores her and whips around to face them all, trunk in hand, his owl shrieking its indignance, and begins to snarl, “Goodbye, Mother, Fath–”

Bellatrix’s hex slams into his chest while his parents are distracted by Narcissa’s panicked search for her wand. Sirius flies back against a brick pillar and slides down, his lungs clenching, his torso frozen. Terrified students scramble away from the family, and his mother is screaming at someone – possibly everyone – and Sirius discovers that he cannot breathe. Then comes Bellatrix.

His wand is up but isn’t doing him much good. He can’t move his lungs, can’t press air out to form words. The tip of the wand just sends off a few sparks. Sirius works his jaw; his mouth gapes. Bella’s teeth are shining, which means, his foggy head thinks, she must be smiling. He spits at Bellatrix, but she’s too far off and he’s shaking too hard to aim well. If he cannot scream, if he cannot speak a spell that will end her – and he knows them, even if he pretends he doesn’t in front of his friends – Sirius knows somewhere deep inside himself that he will go mad.

Gritting his teeth, Sirius refuses to panic and braces for a little more pain. To panic now is to lose to Bellatrix. But the pain will come. This summer is not finished with him, and neither is Bellatrix Black.

She is almost to the shadows on Sirius’s pillar when a hex comes flying out of the crowd and misses her by inches. Bella shrieks and it’s in anger, not fear. She turns her back on Sirius in time to block the next flash and pop of light, but Sirius can see that it’s sloppily done. He cannot see the attacker. For one moment, just a moment, Sirius thinks his parents are stopping her, but then he sees James Potter’s face, ridiculous James Potter, with a bulging package of his Mum’s cakes and a fancy new broomstick under one arm. James Potter’s other hand furiously brandishes his wand directly at Bellatrix’s face.

He shoves away a group of gawking fifth years about twice his size and shouts another hex at the dark-haired girl with the mad Black eyes. Bella isn’t quick enough to block this time, not quite believing a boy with what looks like a bit of sugar glaze smeared across one cheek and crooked glasses is the one brave enough to stand up to her.

It is probably that moment that Sirius realizes, unconsciously, that James will always be a hero, and all his life he will try to be as good a man as James Potter.

The hex is a childish one; they tested it on Lily Evans last year, when she told them off from picking on Snape. Long ropes of Bella’s wavy black hair whip around her like snakes, until, with her face twisting with rage, she looks so much like the Medusa Sirius would laugh, if he could. The hair twists across her eyes and mouth, leaving her gagged and blind, scarlet with fury.

Sirius hardly even cares he is suffocating anymore, because if he dies watching James gag his cousin with her own hair he’ll die happy. He’ll die laughing.

Only he can’t laugh. Can’t laugh or scream, even with the air thick with his family’s shouts and Bellatrix clawing blindly through the crowd, James leading her further and further from Sirius, in the shadows.

Also, his fingers are tingling and his vision is getting spotty.

Is no one noticing?

Ah, maybe he shouldn’t have spoken so soon about the whole death thing. Sirius would really like to burn Grimmauld Place to the ground before he dies, let it light up the sky, so the partiers in Soho look over towards Islington and wonder, what is that light on the clouds? There are plans to carry out as well – very serious plans, concerning the logistics of smuggling pixies into the school. It’s not ready yet because Remus is the logistics man, not Sirius or James. And Remus knows how to escape a whole horde of pixies without getting half his face bitten off, which will be a definite bonus when the time comes.

So you see, Sirius Black thinks at the Universe, a bit giddily, I really don’t have the time to die now.

He’s not sure the Universe listens. The panicked pain is roaring up his throat now, far harsher than he would have imagined death by suffocation to be. It’s becoming difficult to feel the bricks under his fingers. There is some bonfire in his stomach that he can’t vomit away, even when his body begins to heave and wretch. He writhes, sick and burning, starving and blackening to one high point of pain, not as awful as Crucio but a whole lot more like dying.

Sirius scrabbles at his chest, at his throat, clawing at these strange Muggle clothes his mother has transfigured out of Regulus’s old robes. It’s more than just the suffocation; it is an old, old fear of his childhood, that if he cannot breathe he will go mad, mad, mad, like every other Black before him.

Panic, panic, heart thudding, fingers curling, clawing at his ribcage, at his eyes which he was sure are glazed with insanity and he can’t even scream. This is worse than he could have imagined, and Bella needs to die, they all need to die, they’ve been strangling him for years, they’ve tossed him on the Thames with the broken lights, but he is too dark he is no star deep dark the cold waters of the river in London with light above pushing him down oh merlin the light is drowning him, it hates him for his darkness so it’s pushing down down blue to black river water deep—

“Finite incantatum,” comes a whisper over the roar of the river, or is that his ears?

And then he isn’t dying anymore.

Sirius gulps in air, presses it out, then back in again. He’s chasing breaths with breaths, afraid he’ll have to choke again soon and desperate to get as much air as he can now. He wipes his face of snot and spit laced with stomach acid and tries to shove himself back further into the shadows. James is being pulled away by a Prefect and Bellatrix is glaring venom from inside that circle of Blacks, her hair back to normal again.

He stares around, a little wild, still a little crazed by some primal fear, even on this crowded platform full of families. But where is the voice, the voice that had ended the fire? It wasn’t James, who was now being held by two Prefects, so it has to have been one of two people – and there is Remus Lupin, stepping out of the cloud of steam rolling away from the Hogwarts Express, wand held aloft.

His hair is boring and floppy and brown, and he’s wearing a jumper in September which has gone all soggy from standing in steam, but he’s probably the best sight Sirius has ever seen. His face is unreadable. Sirius has the uncomfortable feeling that he doesn’t want to find out what’s behind it.

Sirius lets his head fall back against the bricks and chokes in breaths, deep and ragged. Remus doesn’t approach him yet, just watches James on one side and Sirius on the other, and calls across the distance, “You alright, mate?”

Sirius laughs.

“That good, eh?” says Remus, and goes to rescue James from the Prefects. Even through the chaotic crowds of Platform Nine and Three Quarters he can feel Remus’s gaze. He should be insulted that Remus feels he needs watching over, but instead he just breathes easy.

 

Peter is so late for the train that the three of them are all starting to worry that they’ll have to find the conductor and jinx him to keep the Express from starting on time.

“You don’t suppose he’d do something cracked, like switching to Durmstrang without telling us?” James asks, pressing his face against the window. His glasses click on the glass.

Sirius scowls at a passing third year who’s eying the seat they’ve commandeered for Peter and proclaims, “He wouldn’t dare.” His voice is still a little rough, like it’s changing, only that won’t start in Sirius until next year. They are not drawing attention to the rasp, or anything at all related to the fight on the platform. This Sirius, as languid and relaxed as he’s playing at being, is not alright and is, in fact, very likely to explode quite messily.

“Maybe Beauxbatons then,” mutters Remus, scanning the crowds of parents for a familiar blonde head. “He’s realized his charm is wasted on us, and has gone off to try it on the French girls.”

Remus only says things like this when he’s absolutely sure no one but his friends are listening. He rather likes how shocked they look each time.  
James unpeels his face from the window. “Why Mr. Lupin, how crass of you! Wizard pubfellows before witchy bedfellows, I always say.”

Remus decides not to tell him he’s heard his own father say that once, while drunk, and it had been scarring.

“French does not make one pretty,” spits Sirius. His tone is so dark that neither boy argues with him. Nor do they point out that Sirius spent a good part of first year breaking into French at strategic intervals simply for the sheer annoyance value.

“Look!” yelps Remus, incredibly thankful to Peter for breaking the stiff silence that followed Sirius’s words, “There he is!” Sure enough, a small blonde boy is flinging himself away from two frazzled parents across the platform towards the train. The wheels inch forward, as if in challenge.

James flings himself halfway out the window. “C’MON PETE, LEG IT MAN! GO, GO, GO! Whooh, look at him!” Peter bends close to the ground in his sprint, weaving through legs, dodging parcels, upsetting younger siblings (though he looks as if he feels bad about that, and repeatedly shouts “Sorry!” over his shoulder) and finally launches himself and his trunk into the carriage, just as the Express begins to chug in earnest.

The three abandon their things and dart out of the compartment. Remus charms the door shut after them – stupid posh twats with absolutely no common sense nor the healthy proletariat fear of robbery – and joins James and Sirius. They have gathered around the stairs up into the carriage, where Peter lies collapsed next to his trunk.

“Missed—the Portkey—outside—Southampton.” He tries to catch his breath. “Had to double back to the house and use the Floo, go to my Mum’s friend’s house in London. Well, they got into a row over something—dunno what, probably my Dad. Anyway, Mum’s friend drove us, in one of those thingies, it was awful, and now I’m here.”

He fakes a swoon, hand on his forehead. James guffaws, slaps his shoulder, and he and Remus take Peter’s trunk between the two of them and drag it into their compartment.

They return to find Sirius prodding the vulnerable Mr. Pettigrew with his wand, muttering something disconcerting about cadavers. Sirius’s sense of humour is always a little macabre. Remus thinks it only gets worse after holidays spent at home. He cautiously pries Peter from his friend’s grip and hands him to James.

Well, the holidays are over now until Christmas, and Remus is glad. He’ll miss his parents, and he’ll miss the strange luxury of waking up in agony in his own bedroom, instead of in the Hospital Wing. But he cannot for the life of him begrudge Sirius the end of summer.

Not if it was all like that.

He still hasn’t put his wand away, even if the danger had mostly passed with the elder Blacks, including Bellatrix, heading back home. Narcissa and Regulus must have scuttled off to their own compartment during the excitement, because he hasn’t seen them anywhere, on the platform or on the train. Remus does not allow his hand to shake when he finally forces himself to tuck his wand into his trousers pocket, and his palms are not sweaty either. It’s willpower. But the picture of Sirius Black twitching in the shadows of the platform, lips the strangest shade of blue….

Remus watches Sirius straighten and sway as the train picks up speed. His dark hair is in a strange side-parted bowl-cut, courtesy of Walburga’s aesthetics and Bellatrix’s violent alterations. He is running his fingers through it now, uncaring of Remus’s eyes upon him, messing it up until he looks like Sirius again. Remus supposes it is images like that – blue lips, doomed eyes – which flash in front of a person’s eyes all their life, just like all those nights painted with the moon.

Remus knows. He knows life is unfair, he knows that even good people get what they never deserved and never asked for. He hopes, naively, vainly, that Sirius still believes that the world is a fair place, and nearly laughs at himself. Who else could know so well that it is not, besides Remus himself?

 

James and Peter are Wessex boys, used to long, warm days, and they start shivering almost as soon as they tumble off the train. James tries to hide it, but he’s just too skinny. Remus likes that Peter doesn’t; he just laughs and smacked his hands together, glaring amiably at a band of Scottish third years who have their billowing sleeves rolled up to their elbows and are being fanned by a small, eager piece of charmed parchment.

“Too bad Auntie Walburga hasn’t thought of that spell,” says a girl in a high voice, “She has such a lovely collection of fans; the Polynesians are particularly elegant.”

Sirius twitches and Remus stands on his toes to peek over Peter’s head. Of the crowd in the direction of the voice he only recognizes the seventh year Black girl Sirius knocked over on the platform. Her platinum blonde hair seems to glow in the darkness of the cloudy night, and the sea of black school robes. There is a dark shadow behind her, that smaller version of Sirius. The famed little brother.

“Just Narcissa. Let’s get on the carriages,” hisses Sirius, rolling his eyes. He hasn’t seen Regulus Black then.

“What carriages?” asks Remus, a little distracted, “Don’t you mean the boats?”

James throws his arm out vaguely in the direction the crowd is heading. “Those, the horseless ones. For second year and up. But damn the carriages—Sirius, will you tell us what that was about? On the platform?” There is only so much patience in James. Remus thinks it will probably improve as he gets older, but for now they are twelve and twitching with curiosity.

“Nothing,” says Sirius dully, shouldering his way through the crowd. Remus notices he is stomping in every mud puddle they pass, probably ruining his outrageously expensive shoes.

They choose a carriage of their own and James bars the door while Peter tugs open the window. Secretly, Remus is anxious to see Hogwarts again. Last year he begged himself just to get there, just see it. Then the goal became to last a week, then two weeks, then two months, and finally until Christmas. By the time the castle was coated in snow and mistletoe was running rampant in the corridors, Remus was swept up in the absolute giddy chaos of the three idiots with which he is currently sharing a very bumpy carriage ride, and forgot to set goals. Except one, of course.

Keep the secret. He touches the dip at the base of his throat. He can still feel the weight of the wooden plaque on his collarbone, and his mother’s voice whispering, “Cadwch y gyfrinach, Remus.” He can still feel the chord around his neck, and his dread when his tongue slips, when one of the forbidden words, those terrible hints, slip out.

He kept the secret last year, without the Not on a string around his neck to remind him. He can keep it this year too.

Hogwarts, and his friends, seemed unreal over the summer. He’d been back in his parents’ house nestled on the side of the mountain, veiled in the thin Welsh rain, his mother’s old Welsh Not back around his neck to remind him over and over, not to forget to hold his tongue. It seemed impossible that Hogwarts and magic – good magic – existed at all.

Then the spires of Hogwarts fill the carriage window and they all pretend not to hear Pete’s little gasp. If it wouldn’t make them look like first years, they’d all be gasping. Already Remus can feel a shy little grin spreading and ducks his face to hide it, because here are all the idle dreams of summer and childhood rising out of this mist, a thousand years strong and completely, utterly, indestructible. He smiles.


	3. In which Remus is found in unfavourable situations

"And i wait  
staring the Northern Star  
i’m afraid  
it won’t lead me anywhere"

\- "Northern Star", a song from Hole's 1988 album

The dormitory door crashes open and Sirius Black strides through. He’s yet to lose the summer’s worth of stiff dignity his parents beat into him, and stands like someone has sent a stinging hex to his unmentionables. James, propped on his four-poster to admire his broomstick before breakfast, snorts behind his hand.

Sirius starts to give him that haughty look from the doorway, and then it becomes an even more amusing sight, because Sirius realizes what he’s doing halfway through. His face then goes from pompous disdain to shock, disgust, and finally mock horror. Then he throws a sock at James. James screeches and flails like a cat dunked in water, knocks the curtain rod halfway across the room and – oh, he’s dead – Remus’s perfectly ordered stack of books to the floor, where the offending sock lays.

Merlin knows how they’ve already acquired socks on their floor the first day of term. It’s a talent, James is sure. He sniggers some more. Might as well get a laugh in before Remus strangles him with a bookmark.

“Stop giggling, you incessant dolt,” Sirius snaps, grin gone. “We’ve misplaced Lupin.”

James tucks his broomstick back under his bed where it can’t wander and peers more closely at Sirius. He is twisting one of the rings on his fingers, and his left thumbnail is bitten down. All the signs that this is not a joke. But better not to take it too seriously or Sirius might just fidget to death in the doorway.

James can’t really blame him for being tense and pompous this morning. They all suspected Sirius had hoped his brother might just, by some miracle, be sorted into Gryffindor as well. And they all saw Sirius’s face last night, hard gray eyes and stiff jaw, when the hat called Slytherin.

It will just be up to his friends to distract him, then.

“OI, PETER! COME AND GRACE US WITH YOUR PRESENCE, YE OF THE SHOWER PEOPLE!” James shouts, probably with unnecessary force.

Peter’s voice echoes out of the bathroom. “I’m not gracing you lot with anything this early in the morning,” he laughs, “I mean, for Merlin’s sake, just give me a minute, James.”

Peter rarely makes James wait. Not thirty seconds of Sirius’s resounding foot-tapping later (he’s found heavy, astoundingly ugly boots somewhere), a rather damp Peter is standing by his own bed, trying to pull his cloak over his robes and towel off his hair at the same time. There seems to be little success.

“What’s this then, mates?” he asks, just like he does every time Sirius and James summon him for something completely inexplicable. Sirius thinks it is almost comforting, Peter and his “what’s this thens”.

“Why have we need of Peter – no offence,” —Peter shrugs and tries to shake water out of his ear— “but it would have been more expedient to simply look for Remus right away. Breakfast ends soon.”

“You’re talking like a ponce again, Sirius,” Peter informs him cheerfully, stealing the sock off the floor and ignoring Sirius’s outrage. He casts about for another one, but no other socks present themselves. He shrugs and puts his shoes on. “When does breakfast end? And who knocked over Remus’s books? You do realize he’s going to strangle us all with bookma—”

“Ten minutes,” cuts in James loudly, with a shade too much cheer, “and our first is herbology. Very far away herbology. In Greenhouse Three, which is farther away than Greenhouse One. By two whole Greenhouses. But I don’t think Pete’ll even need all that time, will you Pete?”

“We’re on a Remus hunt?” Peter asks, since no one has actually thought to clarify this. He always misses Remus the times they are, well, looking for Remus. He would make hunting for himself so much easier.

“Yes, we most definitely are. Remus can’t skip out on us this first morning! Imagine McGonagall’s despair when she’s greeted with only a fraction of our vivacious number!” wails James.

“Don’t think ‘vivacious’ is a word, mate,” says Peter. He holds the door for the other two as they hurry down the winding stairs.

“Is so! I’ve heard Remus say it!”

“Maybe Remus makes up words, to test us like,” suggests Peter, dodging the armchairs in the empty common room.

“He would,” says James gloomily as they step out from behind the portrait hole and into the drafty corridor. “Where to, then?” James looks at Peter. Sirius looks at James. The Fat Lady glares at the three of them. Sirius thinks she’s beginning to suspect that their group is behind all those times she’s opened and closed by an invisible Gryffindor.

“How are we expected to comprehend—merlinburnit—how’re we supposed to know where to go?” Sirius demands, rubbing at his face and running his fingers through his dark hair.

“Have you actually forgotten Peter’s incredibly uncanny ability to find just about anyone who’s hiding?” James demands.

“Ah,” says Sirius, but there is a sudden light behind his eyes. It has felt, up until a moment ago, that the long summer is all there is. But Peter’s knack for discovering Those Who Would Really Rather Stay Hidden, Thank You brings to mind the pranks and gallivanting of yesteryear. He begins to suspect that he hadn’t actually died on the platform after all.

How useful, this “being alive” thing.

Sirius tosses his hair, though it is a bit short. Maybe he should grow it out. “Lead on,” he tells Peter, gesturing down the hallway.

“Shh,” says Peter, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of him, “The master is at work.”

Sirius scoffs, not very quietly.

Peter wants Remus back. At the end of last year he started kicking Sirius when he’s being rude.

Ignoring Sirius for now, Peter hums to himself and rocks back on his heels. “He’s probably somewhere you two would deem, erm, pathetic.”

“Hey now!” comes the protest.

“I mean no offense,” says Peter in his best “we come in peace!” voice, holding up his hands. He pauses. “And I’ll bet you the last chocolate frog it’s a bathroom.”

“Oh come on, I thought we didn’t have to deal with that predictions bullocks until next year,” Sirius whinges. “Who made you Divination professor?” Peter winces at the loud voice echoing off the stone corridor.

“Please, Sirius, this is a _sciencspific process_.”

 

Remus Lupin, as it turns out, is, in fact, in a bathroom. Proving Mr. Pettigrew’s substantial skill, luck, or ability to predict coincidences, it is also the most pathetic bathroom. Said Remus Lupin probably holds the school wide record for the shortest amount of time taken to find refuge with Moaning Myrtle.

It had been the afternoon of his first day of classes.

Still, he really prefers to translate “pathetic” to “private”. Which it is if you don’t count Myrtle. But Myrtle isn’t likely to tell, and not just because she has no one to tell anything to. She actually seems to like him.

No one likes Myrtle. And those first couple months of school, no one liked Remus either.

Long story short, it is a good place to puke his guts out on the days around the transformation, when the moon is already tugging his body like fishhooks in flesh and mind. It is dizzying and nauseating and makes him think his very blood is made of Dark magic, but Myrtle doesn’t seem to mind the bad company.

As good a refuge as Myrtle provides for this, even Remus can only deal with so much of Myrtle’s drama and he’s been in here since four this morning.

“Poor, poor sickly boy,” croons Myrtle. “I was sickly too, you know.”

She follows Remus from the toilet stall to the sinks, where he sticks his face under a faucet. It’s very nice, because he can’t hear Myrtle while his ears are submerged. Unfortunately there is a time limit, and when drowning is no longer an option Remus straightens, sputtering. Myrtle is still talking. With shaking hands he turns the tap off and tries to dry his face and hair on his threadbare school robes. His hands are shaking too hard to do it well, and he swears.

“Poor us sickly little kids. I was such a sickly girl. It eventually killed me.” She whimpers, and drifts unsteadily towards the ceiling.

Remus stiffens. He tries to banish the statistics of Werewolf deaths, the lycanthropy his mother just called “eich salwch” – your illness – and the life expectancy, but it is all too well memorized and floods his brain with stunning speed. He’s not sure there’s ever been a werewolf who locked himself up and lived past his teens

Don’t like confines, these child werewolves. Whether it’s his parents’ bunker, built into the mountain, or the shack in Hogsmeade, the wolf will not stop trying to destroy them both.

Remus Lupin may have had to grow up fast, and he may be the most mature of all his friends, but he is scared and hurting and he wants, so much, to live.

Remus snaps. He is angry because the only alternative is crying.

“Myrtle, last year you explained – at length – that you where in here because you were being teased. If you’d been sick, you’d be haunting the hospital wing,” It’s fear, and the madness of the moon that speaks, and Remus immediately regrets it. Nasty thing to say, even to a hypochondriac ghost with a taste for melodrama.

Oh Merlin, he has to stop using posh words like that around Sirius and James and Peter or he’ll never hear the end of it. Why, why is he so good at annoying people? Remus watches gloomily as Myrtle shrieks about the bathroom, spraying him with freezing water. He leans against the mirror, trying to stop his shivering, and glances at the high windows. The sun looks suspiciously high.

“Merlin’s sagging—Myrtle, do you have the time?”

Myrtle stops swooping to sniff. “How should I know? I’m dead aren’t I? Dead in the bathroom.”

“My Mum says Elvis died on the toilet,” he soothes. “Not sure who he is, but she sort of swoons when she talks about him. I think he must’ve been a Muggle celebrity.” Remus shakes his head a little, wolf-style, sending stray drops of water smattering across the mirrors. He’s forgotten how disturbing it is to think of his mother swooning.

This is hard to banish from his brain, however, when he glances up to see Myrtle fall into a swoon of her own.

“Elvis? You don’t mean my Elvis Presley? He’s so…his hips…such an American. Such a voice,” she flies a loop-the-loop, hands pressed to her transparent chest. Then she swoops down to peer at Remus’s face, her watery eyes just inches from his. “I used to have a whole collection of magazines with his pictures. Oh, I miss those.”

“Er, Myrtle, look, I’ll owl my Mum for some pictures. She had some Muggle ones. Just, I really need to go now. I’ll be late for classes.” He really wishes he didn’t have to go, even if staying means more of Myrtle’s mood swings and toilet water in his robes. If he pukes again, in History of Magic for example, Professor Binns might actually notice. His friends will definitely notice, unless Sirius is even more oblivious to the actions of People Who Are Not Sirius Black than usual. Being that it’s probably impossible for Sirius to become any more self-absorbed, this seems unlikely.

“Blast,” says Remus to the sink. It hisses at him. Even Hogwarts bathrooms are strange. He stumbles to the next sink.

Full moon on the second night of school – what kind of luck is that? His stomach clenches again. Weakly, Remus tries to cast a drying charm on his clothes, but it only takes them from soaked to soggy.

A small sort of accomplishment, Remus supposes.

He is normally so good at charms. Remus laughs tiredly, bitterly. Normally, he is a little more together than this. He is civil and polite and not hiding in a bathroom with a volatile ghost with whom he feels some odd kinship.

“Normally, normally, normally,” Remus says in a sing-song, bending over the sink. Classes are definitely starting soon, and he’s missed breakfast; he doesn’t even have a schedule. He can hear footsteps hurrying up the corridor, and rising voices.

Familiar voices.

“I swear this castle renovates itself every summer! Couldn’t they hand out maps at the start of term?”

“And miss all the fun watching the ickle firsties panic when they take a wrong turn and end up in the dungeons instead of the Astronomy Tower?”

“Okay, maybe they should just give us maps.”

“We’re really the last ones who’d need them, Pete. We know more of the castle than anyone except Dumbledore, I’d expect.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, voice growing louder still, “But it would be nice. To keep track of the passages, you know.”

Remus really, really hopes against all logical thought – and he hates going against logic – that the other voice was actually Regulus Black and not his much more likely elder counterpart, and that Regulus has several friends who sound exactly like Remus’s friends. Yes, this is definitely possible.

The voices grow louder still and Remus tries to feel optimistic. He only succeeds in becoming a little more queasy.

“Peter, that’s the girls’ bathroom, isn’t it?” James sputters. “I’ve seen Remus! He’s not a girl.”

“And why were you looking? Are you really, really sure there’s not even a little girl under there?” leers Sirius. Remus feels ultimate doom impending, doom that can only mean the death of all his pride and manhood. This doom’s name is Sirius Black and it is about to find him hiding in a girls’ bathroom and that will be the end. In retrospect it is amazing he’s made it this long with any masculinity intact. Remus supposes twelve years is a pretty nice accomplishment. It is a weak consolation.

“It’s the abandoned girls’ bathroom,” Peter finally explains. “We hid from Filch in there last October. Nearly drowned, remember? But if he’s anywhere, he’s here.” There is a sound like a gulp. “Who wants to go first?”

“What are you afraid of?” Sirius mutters. “We didn’t actually drown, now did we? There are a lot worse things in the world than cursed bathrooms.”

Remus looks at the hissing sink to his left speculatively. It is silent.

“It was just a ghost, remember?” James reaches up to knock, just in case girls actually do use this bathroom, but Sirius Black does not bother with pleasantries. He blasts the locked door open and steps in shouting, “Hello all, we’ve lost a Remus Lupin!”

James, unfazed, follows at his elbow, lazily twirling his wand. “We thought possibly you could return him,” he adds.

They are met by a ghost drawing Myrtle+Elvis in hearts along the wall with toilet water. She stares at them, and then whips around to a brunette boy who suspiciously resembles the missing Mr. Lupin. He is bending over a sink, and is apparently attempting to become one with the bathroom furnishings.

“You didn’t tell me you have friends,” Myrtle hisses at Remus, and dives into the plumbing. A little wave of water rolls across the bathroom floor, just high enough to get all of their socks wet and suspiciously smelly.

It is quiet. Everyone looks at Remus. He pukes into the sink.

 

The next morning all of them, except Remus, are seated in the too-warm Charms classroom, which is very bright and smells, Sirius decides, pleasantly like burnt sugar. Sirius traces the old scorch marks on his desk. He is thinking very hard about marks on his desk and not about any other desks, especially any to his right side which should rightfully be holding a Remus. Both the scorch marks and possibly the burnt sugar smell are the fault of the four of them and the impromptu end of the year party last June.

“That flambé was doomed from the start,” Sirius mutters, picking at a particularly nasty scorch mark.

“Yes, but we all knew the risks,” says James, who somehow always knows just what Sirius is talking about. “Oi, Shepperd, that’s not your seat!” Alice Shepperd sends him a withering glare, but moves out of Remus’s desk.

James has already kicked Bones, who is Gryffindor and Sirius even likes, and then Sprout who is one of the Hufflepuffs and never had a chance, out of the seat Remus chose yesterday.

Flitwick is babbling on in his high little voice about what they’ll be learning this year for the second day in a row. Sticking charms will apparently be prominent in their education. Sirius is struggling to express, even to himself, how little he cares.

To his left, James spreads a crumpled bit of parchment on his desk, throwing Sirius and Peter significant looks. He mutters darkly when he manages to smear ink from his own fingers across the paper.

“Alright mates,” whispers James, “this is the letter he sent me. Got it the last day of summer.”

Peter digs a similar piece of parchment out of his pocket. “Here’s mine,” he says, a little loudly. Flitwick eyes them from atop his stack of books.

“First warning, boys.”

“But it was just me, Professor,” protests Peter. Flitwick, a year’s experience with the four of them under his belt, ignores him.

“Good show, mate,” hisses James. “Just keep it quiet.”

He takes Peter’s letter and his own and places them next to each other on the desk, as if all the secrets of one Remus J. Lupin will reveal themselves from two short, boring missives.

Out of the corner of his mouth James hisses, “Sirius, give us yours.”

“Don’t have one,” Sirius mutters. When they’d planned the Great Letter Decoding Mission, he’d decided this little fact wasn’t important.

His fingers drum a staccato on the desktop and his leg jiggles. At their looks Sirius grudgingly elaborates. “Mother and Father didn’t keep my letters from me, if that’s what you lot are thinking. Remus didn’t owl me.” He doesn’t say that they read them all before they were put in his hands. They’d given him time in the cellar for having such disreputable friends, but for the first time it had felt worth it, just taking detention for the cause.

But they knew about Remus, thanks to the tattletale cousins – probably Narcissa, she’s always looking for ways to look good for her Auntie Walburga. When no letters came, his father mocked him, because his precious little Mudblood friend hadn’t deigned to send him so much as a word. It worked too well. Sirius is still terrible at keeping emotion from his face.

He is getting better, though. Not good enough to fool James, so it’s lucky Peter gets a sneezing fit just then.

Peter sneezes again. “Blast,” he says, “Hagrid’s dog strikes again.” He picks a stray hair off of his robes. “I don’t know how these get on me; I swear Hagrid must shed, too.”

“From his beard,” quips James. “Make sure to scourgify those robes, Pete. I think you’ve taken Remus’s again.”

Peter looks down. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he says. “That’s why they’re so blasted tight. I thought I’d gained ten stone in a night.”

“Then stop stealing our clothes, you poof,” says James, elbowing him. Peter flushes.

“James Potter, fine way to speak when you’re wearing my hat,” hisses a voice from behind. Lily Evans glares fire.

While James attempts to save his own skin from the ginger she-demon (and possibly anger her infinitely more in the process), Peter turns back to Sirius.

“Remus probably didn’t want to get you in trouble,” reasons Peter, “He’s seen how your cousins react to you being friends with him.”

“Arseholes, all of them,” James cuts across before Sirius can go ballistic.

“MR. POTTER,” shrieks Flitwick, “LANGUAGE!”

Banished from the classroom and several points poorer, James crouches, hatless, in the Charms corridor and watches people pass by. It is busy this time of day at the start of term, with a lot of lost first years sprinting through and teachers hustling about on a free hour. Not a bad place to be, all things considered. Some high stained glass windows let in a hint of September sunlight. He pulls out the two letters and pokes at them with his wand. It’s difficult to slouch in a cool way against the wall when he’s feeling so thoughtful.

No need to feel thoughtful alone. James waits.

Not more than a minute later, Sirius and Peter appear with little grins. A few girls are shrieking inside.

“Thirty-five seconds,” James says, “You’ve gotten lax.”

Sirius snorts. Steam begins to waft out from under the classroom door.

“Tropical jungle?” James enquires, feeling at little left out.

Sirius shook his head. “It was on short notice. Turns out if you mix Pepper-Up Potion with rosewater and my cousin’s Beyond Betwitching bath salts you can make an instant sauna.” When James looks put out, Sirius says, “I was going to tell you at lunch. That’s why I had a jar of the stuff in my bag. And we were talking about the pixy prank last night, anyway.”

Next to them, Peter wrinkles his nose. “I think we should ask Remus to help with the smell. Right now it’s roses and rotten eggs.”

James grins and pats the stone floor next to him. “Come sirs, join me on my throne. Together we’ll find a way too woo dear Remus back to you.”

Sirius kicks him and settles down onto the sun-warmed stone. “I don’t care about his charms, I care about his Charms. We’re all too heavy on the transfiguration.”

“Too much Transfiguration?” gasps James, “Never!”

“Show me the letters, you git. Then explain what in Merlin’s name you think you’re going to discover.”

James’s face behind his glasses becomes far more serious than normal.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” he says. “His mum’s sick, right? He mentions it in Peter’s letter. What if it…runs in families or something?”

Sirius narrows his eyes. He hates it when people talk about anything that runs in blood, but this is James. “So you’re saying he’s sick too?”

“Well, maybe,” James nods, wild black hair sticking up all over the place. “Pete brought it up when he disappeared last night. He had to have gone to the hospital wing – we all saw how sick he was yesterday, but he insisted on going to classes.”

“Remus always goes to classes. He likes them.” Sirius rolls his eyes.

“Right, I suppose. Though it’s unnatural, don’t say things like that, Sirius. No one likes school. Anyway, he made it look like it was normal – he didn’t act like he was sick at all. It was just a normal Moody Remus Day. Maybe on those days he’s all moody, it’s cause he’s feeling off.”

“Or maybe he had a stomach bug and is moody ‘cause he’s, er, worried. About, er, his mother.” Sirius still doesn’t know how to talk about family, his or anyone else’s.

James shrugs hopelessly. Sirius pokes at the letters with his wand and mutters “ _Aparecium_.” Nothing happens.

“What’s that for?” asks Peter. Sirius looks surprised that he has to ask. “Invisible ink.” Many of the Black family’s letters are written that way. He gives James that look that means he’s just said something he thought was perfectly normal, but is realizing is one of those strange and eerie things which are the norm solely in the House of Black. Sirius smiles sheepishly as the bell rings for lunch. The three of them stand in unison.

“Sorry you missed it James,” Alice Shepperd calls to them as she and the rest file out of the classroom, wringing out their robes and looking a bit warm.

“It was a pretty wicked sauna. Though it smelled kind of awful, like, I dunno, rotten bath salts.”

“Burn the bath salts,” grumbles Sirius, “burn them like my great great great great Aunt Alberta in the Inquisition.”

“Language!” comes Flitwick’s tremulous yell from the billows of steam.

Sirius grins and leads them in the lunchtime sprint down to the Great Hall. He really doesn’t want anyone to bring up Lupins or illnesses or anything that would force him to remember how white Remus’s face was in the bathroom, or how his hands shook and no one seemed to notice.

Sirius isn’t used to noticing. He doesn’t like it.

 

Every time.

His eyelids flutter, confused. He thinks that there should be two more, the clear ones that slip across his eyes when he lunges.

His mouth tastes like raw meat. Once, long before he came to Hogwarts, he woke up with one of his own fingers wedged between his teeth. It had taken him a while to figure out what it was. His mother screamed and screamed. A healer friend, one of the last to owe his father a favour, had put it back on.

Every time, when his human mind kicks in, when he realizes no human should have three eyelids or a breath rank with flesh, he is sick with the fear. It swarms his ears, sounds like maggots, like the burning horror and his Mam’s face when she held the tiny finger and couldn’t stop screaming to breathe. His poor Mam. She was just a Muggle girl, grown up on the Welsh seaside with parents who worked the mines. When she discovered his father, and magic, it had all seemed so mesmerizing, so much better than the life she could’ve had with a Muggle man. So she ran away with magic, only to have a Werewolf as a son. She’d not been prepared.

Remus can move more than just his eyelids now. He doesn’t feel very human, even if his body seems to finally have chosen that shape. He needs to make sure he’s not done anything to make his Mam scream again.

“Mam, wnes i ei wneud?” Remus whispers. His mother insists on Welsh when they speak of the wolf. “The dead language for the deathly secret,” she would say, mouth bitter, and touch the hollow at the base of her throat, where his Not hung, waiting for his tongue to slip.

So the first words, before he remembers Hogwarts and Scotland and English are, “Wnes i ei wneud y tro hwn?”

Did I do it this time?

“Sleep,” says a voice, mid-aged and rough and tired. All those tending the good-as-dying sound the same, Remus thinks. Pomfrey and his Mam both. But she’s not answering him. Why isn’t she answering him? Oh Merlin. Oh no, no, not this.

Remus’s breath comes fast. Pain stabbing, blood in his oesophagus, on his cracked lips. “WNES I EI WNEUD?” he shouts, and the blood flies from his throat and falls in a cloud of red pinpricks on his sheets.

“You’re speaking gibberish,” Pomfrey informs him. “Shush. Sleep. It’s early yet; just barely lunchtime.”

It’s not gibberish. It’s Welsh. It’s his language of fear. Remus has not stopped being afraid, somewhere in his mind, since he was six years old. He says this aloud – he has no idea what language – and vomits before Pomfrey can get the bowl to him. The puke is yellow like raw eggs. It steams. It’s not pain that’s making him feverish and ill, not yet. No, it’s fear and the smell of moulding wood on his skin.

A splinter as thick as his thumb is imbedded in his forearm, but he can’t quite feel it yet. The instincts in his head are warring. He leans forward and tries to tug the wood out of his flesh with his teeth, whining.

He’s forgotten he has thumbs again.

Some part of Remus deep in his head sighs and shakes its head, and it is the most comforting thing he’s ever felt. It is human. Then it is gone.

Pomfrey clears the sick off of him with a wave of her wand, her face unreadable to either wolf or boy. He is at her mercy. The wolf doesn’t like it. The boy is afraid. Neither will show this.

Fear roils in his stomach, in his ears, and his body is confused as to what shape it should be in.

“No one is hurt but you,” says Madame Pomfrey, not reacting to the look of horror on his face. “Now, please speak English or I will not be able to understand you. You are not at home anymore, Mr. Lupin. Term has started.”

This explains some things. This does not, however, explain how many eyelids Remus is supposed to have. Is it humans who have three, or the Werewolf? Hasn’t he always had three? Where have the clear ones gone? There are holes straight through his lips, but not teeth to make them.

Remus tries to right the capsized boat. This is how he pictures his mind. It’s a slippery, tippy thing and when it’s the wrong way up he can’t remember his own name.

But Pomfrey has said something important. One more month without human blood on his hands. This is good, but it cannot last. The next month he will hunt again, and the next, and the next. Remus is a good gambler; he once won all of Peter’s monthly allowance off him in one evening of exploding snap, and his Mam won’t play poker with him anymore. It is all about the odds and the numbers.

Remus knows the statistics. He’s read his father’s old files. The werewolf will win, eventually. Given enough years all chances of success fall to zero.  
The werewolf breathes down his neck. It is there in the hospital bed, and its saliva runs red and the dirt of its fur streaks the sheets. It is about to eat Remus, and then it will become the next Loki crawled out of Valhalla and devour the world.

Animal fear, human fear. Instinctual panic magnified by human imagination. His mind capsizes again, all the way. Flips.

Pomfrey stands over him and forces a potion down his throat.

Remus sleeps, and dreams of moonlight on stones and an unobstructed sky, and the quiet snuffle of a wolf behind him, but it is not behind him, because they are one.

Simple, that. So simple, and so terrible.

Then Sirius is in front of them, lips blue, and mouths, “It’s just normal, isn’t it Remus?” before they tear out his jugular. Sirius’s blood is blue.

 

_Mam_   
_The Cottage on the side of the Mountain_   
_Snowdonia, Wales_

_September 4th, 1972_

_Mam,_

_There’s a girl here who’s a fan of the Muggle (non-magic, you know) celebrity “Elvis Pressy”. I remembered that you used to have a lot of pictures of him (am I right?), and I wanted to ask if you’d mind sending some along for her. She’s lost all her photographs and seems to miss them a lot._

_Nid oedd y lleuad yn rhy ddrwg. Madam Pomfrey yn fedrus iawn. Peidiwch â phoeni. Gobeithio eich bod a dad yn dda._

_Remus_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many apologies to anyone who actually speaks Welsh.


	4. In which several tactics are a bit underhanded

“Of all the things that wisdom provides  
to help one live one’s entire life in happiness,   
the greatest by far is the possession of friendship.   
[...]Eating or drinking without a friend is the life of a lion or a wolf.”

-Epicurus

 

November, 1972

 

_The Very Unplottable_   
_12 Grimmauld Place,_   
_London, England_

_Mother,_

_I never promised to terminate any friendships for completely pointless reasons. Give me proof that Lupin is plotting to murder, maim, corrupt, or tempt me. Otherwise, I can find no logic in your rather rude request, and will have to demand that you do not send any more Howlers making your thoughts known, as Halloween presents or otherwise._

_As it seems to be the only thing you understand or treasure, think of the family reputation. Rather coarse of you to show such an ugly side, Mother._

_When it comes to Regulus, I would watch over him if I were ever near him, and I am quite busy. After all, he has all of Slytherin to cover his back. No Howlers are required in this area, either._

_Sincerely,_   
_Sirius Orion Black_   
_Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts_

 

The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is, by common consensus, absolutely terrible. He drones, he stutters, he has yet to teach anything. Even Remus, when he returned to class, had within a week settled for doodling grindylows on his notes and muttering about wastes of time. It’s been two whole months of that now.

The doodles are terrible, Remus will readily admit, but it is a good way to pass time. Remus likes grindylows. His father once took him down to the lake at the base of the mountain where there are bogs on the south end, and they barely escaped drowning. Remus, age eight, thought it was terribly exciting, and has been something of a grindylow fan ever since.

Yet, even grindylows become boring after a while. He scratches at a bandage under his sleeve, the latest of the wounds magic cannot heal. It burned like the Inquisition for the first couple days.

Remus had just smiled.

Now, it is itchy.

He is contemplating ways to surreptitiously scratch an injury he shouldn’t have in the first place when a shadow drops over his desk

“Mr. Lupin,” crows Professor Greengrass, “We do not doodle in my class.” He wags his finger – actually wags it, back and forth in front of Remus’s face.

Sirius and James perk up, tasting a change in the air. They look crestfallen when they realize the bell hasn’t rung. Then they see Remus, Professor Greengrass, and the finger wagging. Eyes narrow. Ignorant of his new audience, Greengrass continues.

“Really, Mr. Lupin, I expected better. Your scores are mediocre, to be sure, but you can hardly be thinking of a career in artistry. My daughter, of course--”

“Not again,” someone groans. It sounds a lot like Alice Shepperd.

“Mediocre?” demands Sirius.

“My daughter,” Professor Greengrass repeats, “Has the natural elegance of mind which produces an artist. You would do well to cultivate this, Mr. Lupin.”

“Frank says his daughter is two years old,” hisses Alice to Lily Evans. Lily taps her quill with more vigour. To their left, James elbows Peter awake. He straightens with an almighty snort.

“Call to arms,” whispers James. Sirius’s eyes get that delightedly, madly wicked look to them. Remus, letting the lecture wash over him, feels the corner of his mouth twitching towards a smile. He stifles it. The finger is wagging again. Remus has the very disturbing urge to bite it off. He is never absolutely certain if these are entirely wolfish instincts, or if possibly he was this weird to begin with.

Right at the perfect moment, when Greengrass is drawing a breath and most of the class had begun to blink out of their stupor, James drawls loudly, “Oh, your daughter.”

Everyone turns to the four of them, every face shining with relief. They are unspeakably bored.

“Such a lovely little girl,” continues Sirius.

“A shame, such a shame,” breathes Peter.

Greengrass bristles. Remus ducked his head to hide the look on his face from both the professor and his friends. Evans, though, has the perfect view and sees his little smile. She shakes her head with a look of long-suffering, red curls trailing along her robes, but does nothing to stop them.

“There is no shame,” Greengrass snaps, turning unsteadily to Sirius, James, and Peter.

“Well, we know those traditions must be difficult for you,” explains James. “Of course, I’m a Potter. Strange family, us. Not nearly enough of the old ways. It’s hard for me to understand.”

Sirius shoots him a dirty look for shirking the explanation, but plays along. “Those pureblood traditions. So sad, to have to promise you daughter’s hand to another family before she’s out of her nappies.”

“Her name’s Astoria,” whispers Alice.

“Whose?” Peter breathes.

“The daughter!” she returns.

“Poor Astoria,” bemoans Peter loudly, and then turns back consult Alice, who seems to be in the know. Girls are like that. Everyone is sniggering by now.

“Oh, but you’d know all about that, Mr. Black. Pureblood traditions and marriages. Too good for you, are they?”

Peter turns quickly back to his friends. Remus risks a glance at Sirius, smile gone. He signals enough to James.

“Whatever can you mean?” Sirius drawls, a predator’s look in his eye. His accent sharpens, far more posh than he’s been since September. “You surely don’t mean to imply that my ancestry would help me to understand your desire to sell your daughter off to the Malfoys.” He leans forward on his desk, rings glittering on his fingers. Everyone looks a little startled to suddenly have the heir of the House of Black in their midst. It’s too easy to forget.

“Hardly, Mr. Black,” snaps Greengrass. He hobbles back behind his desk and settles down to grade pop quizzes from his fourth years, and refuses to listen to another word.

Remus settles uneasily back into his grindylow doodling. It’s not the same; the class is tense and shrill. The noise is back up to full volume in seconds, but then seems to fade off again. Remus looks around for the cause and sees something new and strange out of the corner of his eye. Over the rumble of whispers and mumbles and giggles and possibly some small explosions from the corner, Sirius Black is raising his hand.

The class quiets. James stops flicking his wand at the cobwebs on the chandelier, making them spell out dirty words. Marlene McKinnon stops flirting with Peter. Alice Shepperd pauses in the midst of her third attempt to turn her hair blue. It halts at a strange pudding colour, but she seems not to notice.

Finally, Greengrass clues in and stares at the lifted hand. Sirius takes this as permission to speak.

“Professor,” says Sirius, “Why don’t we have a lesson on wandless magic?”

Even James is stunned, but he recovers much faster than Remus and Peter. They are the dark haired twins of the group, those two. But Peter and Remus can tell that James is just operating on blind faith in their friend. He doesn’t actually know where this is coming from.

Remus has an inkling, slowly forming in his mind. It is the colour blue. It is sealed lungs on the platform and a useless wand. He looked up the curse in the library as soon as he got the chance; he can’t help himself when it comes to research. It’s a nasty one.

There are a lot of things Remus cannot understand about Sirius. The inability to lie down and take what he’s given is not one of them.

“Mr. Black, can you ever ask an intelligent question?” barks Professor Greengrass. The boys shift in the seats. To insult one of them is to insult all of them. Soon it will be several insults too many.

Greengrass just sees a pack of fidgety twelve-year-olds. He doesn’t know how they are tied together, how James saves Sirius from himself and Remus from his loneliness, and Sirius makes them all feel alive and gives James purpose and Peter keeps them all from just going mad.

“Really, Mr. Black, are you raving?” Sirius twitches. “Wandless magic? Only wizards much more powerful than yourself can ever expect to attain such skill. None of the students I teach, that’s for certain. Maybe your friends should take you to the Hospital Wing, to get your head checked.

“Merlin knows I respect your family, but you I must exclude from this. Don’t you realize how you shame them? But don’t worry, dear boy, I expect it’s the inbreeding. A mother who didn’t even have to change her name when she married! Ah, poor boy.” He laughs at his joke, his return volley at a twelve-year-old boy. Not one of the Gryffindors laughs back. Sirius is crimson with rage. That is to be expected. But there is shame there too, and that is not. It is the trigger that makes Remus’s blood boil. He is so angry that the classroom lurches, that he can feel a growl about to rise in his chest.

He is out of his seat with his wand pointed at Greengrass before anyone can react. Without looking, he knows James has done the same and Peter has followed. Their chairs clatter to the ground a second later, a strange echo.

It is not a joke anymore. They are no longer harmless, either. Greengrass has seen the look in their eyes, the steadiness with which they hold their wands.

“That is enough, professor,” says James.

Professor Greengrass’s long face grows purple and his eyes bulge. Now he is going to start on James, or taunt Sirius more. And Sirius will snap. That he’s held back this long is amazing, but if he curses a teacher, not even Sirius has a good chance of escaping expulsion. Not after hexing Snape into a pulp last Halloween, after that Howler came, and then leaving Snape for the night at the top of the West Tower.

That would be letting the Black family win. That would be letting Greengrass win. That would be letting Sirius destroy himself. None of them will ever let Sirius do that. None of them.

Remus plays the chances. “Professor Greengrass!” he says loudly. Everyone turns to gape at him. Remus has not actually planned this far. He opens his mouth. “Why don’t we have a lesson on grindylows!” he all but shouts, and flaps the parchment with the grindylow doodles in Greengrass’s face, jabs at it madly with his wand, and half to Remus's surprise the parchment gives a horribly wrenching lurch two inches from Greengrass's sweaty, rage-red nose, and contorts itself into a very roughly sculpted grindylow. The parchment grindylow makes a shrill cawing screech of a noise and vibrates wildly, and just when it looks like it's about to tear itself to confetti in Greengrass's furious face, it neatly backflips through the air as if it's water, rebounds off a far stone wall, and makes a suddenly graceful dive for the third row's pointed hats.

In the corner of the classroom the little Charmed bells ring for the end of the hour and the class erupts towards the door, the hat-less third row leading the charge. In the chaos, James grabs Sirius’s wand arm and steers him quickly out the door, Peter and Remus hurrying behind. He thinks he sees Lily Evans surreptitiously directing the parchment grindylow's graceful (and many-jointed and horrifying) swim through the air, but he's not sure. Alice Shepperd is last out of the room on Lily's heels, laughing like she's been hit by one of Marlene McKinnon's notorious Cheering Charms. Remus, whose self-preservation instincts have just returned from their brief holiday, doesn't stay to investigate.

 

Peter notices things, not because he is quiet – he isn’t – but because he can’t quite live life on the brink of well, whatever it is, sanity or genius or insomnia driven energy, that Sirius and James run on. Remus doesn’t go for the brink thing either, so the two of them are the noticers.

It is too bad then, Peter thinks, that it is Remus he’s noticing, because a second opinion would be really great right about now.

Really, really great.

He nudges his sleepy white mouse with the tip of his wand. Remus has almost turned his into a fancy teacup, complete with gilt gold, which would’ve been wicked if the assignment hadn’t been to turn them into water glasses. Not only that, but the teacup seems to still be alive, and keeps sprouting fur. If they were doing this in the common room, Peter’s transfiguration would be nearly perfect, but his first year at Hogwarts sort of put him in a rut of low expectations that makes it incredibly difficult to do well in classes.

It’s just some extra credit for McGonagall, anyway. She has some left over mice from the fourth years and is letting them have a go at it.

Peter’s mouse has gone all clear and slow-moving on the outside. Normally, Peter would be studying its organs in some sort of grotesque fascination, mesmerized by the way he can see them through the skin. Or maybe he’d be giggling at the way Sirius can only seem to turn his mouse into a giant, gothic goblet, complete with spikes and miniature gargoyles.

James’s water glass is, of course, perfect. He’s used a shaky version of the Aguamenti Charm to fill it up and is leaning back, sipping water and watching the rest of the class cockily. Remus is hiding a smile, because he knows, even if no one else does, that James can hardly manage _Aguamenti_ – it is a sixth year Charm after all – and that water probably tastes like piss. Peter would bet Remus can do the charm.

Instead of enjoying any of this, Peter Pettigrew is watching a skinny, brown-haired boy squirm in his seat and glare at a rather girly, very furry, squirming teacup.

He wonders what his life is coming to.

Peter is good at finding people who want to stay hidden. He’s almost certain the long, vaulted corridor of the hospital wing is ten feet longer on the outside than it looks on the in. He would bet that there is a door behind the tapestry of Walburga the Well-hearted (no relation to Sirius’s mother whatsoever) and Hubert the Hunting Wizard of Leige.

He would bet that it will lead them to Remus’s secret. Maybe they keep his mother there, Peter thinks. So Remus can always come running if she takes a turn for the worse. Or maybe James is right and Remus is ill as well, but has to keep it a secret.

Peter sighs. It feels like almost-Christmastime; McGonagall’s giving extra credit, for Merlin’s sake, and James has nearly caught hypothermia twice from his manic Quidditch practice. It’s the holiday spirit. They even had Christmas pudding last night for dessert.

Peter glances down, and his mouse has disappeared. He has the most awful feeling that he’s heard a meow outside the classroom door. Miss Norris has stolen his Transfiguration subject. Again.

He turns back to watch Remus, who’s given up on his wriggling teacup. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach which has nothing to do with Miss Norris’s supper.

Peter hates to go behind any of his friends’ backs, Remus included. He hates it when they’re angry with him. But James and Sirius have been blundering ahead, dropping hints and asking outright questions without doing much about actually looking.

They’re the really clever ones. If Peter tells them, most of the weight is off his shoulders.

The temptation proves too much.

_James-_   
_I think I know where R goes. Could be wrong, but do you think we should check it out? Hospital Wing, behind the Walburga and Hubert tapestry._   
_P._

 

After class, when Remus has disappeared into the library again, James doesn’t like the idea of raiding the Hospital Wing and lifting the tapestry of Walburga-not-Sirius’s-mother-but-actually-the-Medieval-witch and the hunter bloke with the forest animals clustered at his feet.

“I don’t like it,” he says, but looks a little like he’s tempted. Nothing has been working, and the feeling that Remus is keeping something from them is wearing on them all. The thought that it’s something terrible that they’re not being allowed to help is even worse.

“We should go,” says Sirius, startling Peter. His gray eyes are hard. “If he needs our help, it’s up to us to give it, whether he’s asking for it or not.”

If it had been anyone but Sirius, James would have started a row on principle. Maybe even with Sirius he would’ve, but James’s instinct to watch out for his friends is warring with his chivalry in giving them privacy.

His hazel eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Alright then,” he says, “I’ll bring the cloak.”

 

They creep into the hidden room steeped in cold afternoon sunlight, tinged gray with the coming of early sleet. It’s risky to come through the tapestry during the day, but Remus is in the dorm at night and all three of them would swear he sleeps with one eye open – not that anyone has yet dared to open his bed hangings while he’s asleep to find out.

Right now he’s in the library, and shortly will return with more tomes titled along the lines of Spellwork Beyond the Wand and the worryingly ambiguous, vaguely twelve-year-old boy sized Advanced Wizardry. It’s their window of opportunity.

Sirius tries to make his mind shut up, because they’re all staring silently at one empty little hospital bed. It’s hard to look at it. The sheets are gray instead of white, and when he looks at James sidelong he sees that it’s occurred to him too; the gray’s meant to try to hide the blood stains. Madame Pomfrey can put a broken bone back in place with a flick of her wand. What kind of blood can’t she mop up?

“Not his Mum then,” says Peter in a voice that sounds like he’d rather swallow his own tongue.

“I told you,” croaks James. “She’s a Muggle. If she tried to come to Hogwarts, she’d just see some ruins, and turn away before she could even touch them.”

“Right,” gulps Peter, “Right.”

Sirius and James nod, because there’s nothing else to do. Sirius feels like the cold light is burning him, like the hospital bed is stretching and growing wider, closer. Still they stand and stare.

Suddenly Peter shatters the afternoon gloom and whispers, “What’s coming through the wall?”

It’s the first bit of a ghost, silvery and glowing. They scramble back towards the tapestry, James fumbling the cloak, but the ghost swoops in too fast.

Three boys and a ghost freeze. Peter has his eyes squeezed shut and whispers, “James, if it’s the Bloody Baron, just kill me now.”

“Hardly,” says the ghost.

“It’s the Fat Friar,” says James, and elbows Peter until he opens his eyes. “Er, hello.”

“James Potter, right? Not my house, but I remember you.” The Friar smiles faintly. Even a Hufflepuff ghost has trouble smiling in this place, with the air so heavy.

Sirius does a little ornamental bow to the ghost; he figures, as much as he hates it, they’d better get off on a good foot if this is Remus’s hiding place.

“That’s right,” says James, “And this is Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew.”

“Of course, of course,” says the Fat Friar. “And where is your fourth?”

They look at each other, then at the room, then at the ghost, speechless. The Fat Friar follows their example and looks around, then sighs heavily.

“Ah,” the ghost says. “Yes, that would explain it.”

James steps forward, Sirius at his wand hand, Peter somewhere behind.

“Do you know about this room?” James asks. The Friar glances away from them, but there is no escaping the room, the hard sunlight, the bed with those faint stains that seem to throb when you look at them too long.

“There are many sad secrets in this castle,” the Friar says, shaking his ghostly head. He quickly glides through the opposite wall when James opens his mouth to question him further.

They stand in silence.

“Well burn it, mates,” says James quietly. Sirius clenches his fists. James’s hand slaps his shoulder, then slides away.

 

Sirius catches Remus on the way back up to the tower. The boy pauses on the top of the steps to wait for Sirius to sprint up.

“Watch for the forty-fifth step,” Remus warns, “It’s started vanishing again.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” pants Sirius, stepping heavily on it to prove his point. His boot sinks through.

“It is Tuesday, Sirius,” Remus points out with a crooked grin – Sirius wants to tease your snaggletooth is showing but it gets stuck somewhere in his throat – and trots down the last couple steps. “My goodness, maybe I should just leave you there. How can you forget what day it is?”

“Remus you traitor, get me out,” howls Sirius, yanking at his foot. He can forget the hard afternoon sunlight in that little room if he works at it. The shadows are deep here, and night has fallen outside. Remus leans against the banister. He looks ragged and tired, not just because his robes are too short and threadbare, and McKinnon’s cat chewed a hole through his hat that he hasn’t noticed yet. It’s around his eyes and mouth.

And just like that, Sirius can’t bring himself to look at him without seeing the hospital bed. In the torchlight his shaggy hair glows nearly ginger.

“You’ve been sick a lot, lately,” says Sirius. He forces himself to look in Remus’s eyes. They are still as stone and unreadable. He licks his lips, and asks before it feels too stupid. Neither Peter or James have really considered this. They’ve discussed illnesses, but….

“Have I?” asks Remus, crossing his arms. He opens his mouth to say more. This has happened before, and Remus will definitely say something that will distract Sirius, probably something about Snivillus, and he will forget what he was asking.

So he blurts it out.

“Are you dying?”

A strange, alien look crosses Remus’s face. It could be revelation. Like the words that come to his mouth are a surprise. Then, “I wish I were!” He’s laughing, laughing hard, and not stopping. Sirius wants to touch him, reaches for his shoulder, but Remus bats his hand away, still doubled over. When he looks up there are tear tracks streaming down his face in pretty little lines and he cannot seem to stop laughing. Remus’s hands scramble for the banister to steady himself, and in this particular light Sirius thinks he sees the echoes of pale old scars.

“Remus,” he says. “Get me out of the step.” This whole situation is so ridiculous. Only at Hogwarts does one get stuck in a trick step in the midst of this sort of conversation.

He seethes. The scars are glinting in the candlelight, and there are faint, old scars on Remus’s face, too. They’re barely there, but he can’t understand how he missed so many of them. Sirius cannot tell which glimmers are teardrops and which is scar.

He grits his teeth. “Remus!” he shouts, and it echoes in the huge space, from the ground floor up to one lofty ceiling five stories above. There are feelings rushing around in Sirius’s body, so many that he feels like he’s filled with dark, swirling water. He chokes on them. Trembles with them.

Remus is mist. Remus is a fleeting bright thing in the torchlight. He chokes out something like, “I’m sorry,” and backs up the steps. Sirius wonders if he runs once he’s around the corner. He would bet everything Remus does not.

“We know!” Sirius hollers after him, “I know!” The echo is incredible and Sirius is half-lying. All he knows are hints and James’s mutterings with Peter all evening. Little flashes of possibilities, all grim, all vaguely horrific in their own right.

His voice is hoarse when a third year, Frank Longbottom, finds him and tugs him out of the step. Sirius can’t even work his throat to say thank you at much above a rough whisper. Frank jumps and stares when he does it, and Sirius realizes this is probably the first time he’s thanked anybody at Hogwarts.

Sirius tries to say it again, but Longbottom just shakes his head and steers Sirius back to the Gryffindor tower. He doesn’t ask, and Sirius never tries to explain, not even years later when they become friends and soldiers and Sirius feels like he should tell him. But it would hardly make sense, would it?

 

It is not long after when Remus tells them, formally.

When he does, it’s not really planned, even though he’s known for a while he would have to do it. On the day, it’s been snowing for half a week, a gray kind of snow that’s more slush than anything you’d see on a postcard. It’s coating his boots and the hem of his robes, mixed with mud. The day is a Saturday, but doesn’t feel like one.

Sirius, James and Peter have been looking for him, and find him near the west tower, on the landing of a staircase with a window open to the elements. All the words they will say there will feel more weighty because they can see them cloud and freeze in front of their faces. They’ve got him cornered, really and truly. It is cold and damp and Remus can feel the animal roaring up inside him, always ready for another battle. The wolf turns to revelling in strife when it can’t run free.

He is tired. It’s a two-front war, fighting the wolf and his friends. They’re the only people who’ve ever cared about him without reason to, aside from Dumbledore.

James is saying, “We’re trying to help.”

Peter talks about tapestries and hidden hospital beds. And then Sirius says, “When I got mixed in with you lot, I thought I was done with secrets. I really thought I was.”

This is what breaks him. Remus shuts his eyes and listens to his own breathing. It doesn’t feel like breaking. It feels like turning to face what he’s been running from for half of his life, almost exactly. Six years with the wolf, six years without.

It is terrible, it is suicide, but some part of him – idiotic he is sure – finally feels right and good.

It doesn’t suit Remus, this running away, but right at this moment he would rather run for the rest of his life than tell them.

Yet he is so, so tired of acting a coward.

“You get one chance to believe me,” Remus says, even though it’s not true. He’d probably let them have as many chances as they need.

He will say it in English. Not in the lovely Welsh his Mam speaks, not in the language in which she sings on the trails along the Mountain. Not in the language he screams in when it’s too much to bear, the morning after the wolf has caroused in his body. He should never have hid behind it. What a terrible thing to do to a language that’s already been kicked into the dirt so many times. What a way to bloody it.

“I didn’t get away,” he says, and realizes it hardly makes sense. It will, though. The English vowels fall too short and flat. They are blunt like blows. “When I was six years old, there was a Werewolf in the night. It came into my house. It came into my bedroom. I didn’t get away.”

It hasn’t sunk in yet. One of them says, “Then shouldn’t you be dead?”

Then their comprehension is warm and vibrant in this cold, echoing place. James has the set jaw of someone proven right.

How cowardly it would have been to let them find out? Thank Merlin, thank fire, he was able to say it. Remus is glad. His mouth doesn’t seem to be working, but if it was, he might even smile.

Remus’s legs work. They haven’t often failed him, except for the night when it really counted. He runs.

Three pairs of steps follow.

 

Twelve hours later Sirius awakes to a strange rocking feeling, like the time first year he stole a boat and set out on the lake before breakfast. He lost the paddle and ended up drifting the entire day, dozing through the afternoon sun until Professor Slughorn finally spotted the rowboat bobbing on the soft waves and summoned it back to shore.

Peter won a sickle betting with James that Sirius had run away to sea. He’d claimed it was close enough.

There is no warm afternoon sun on his cheeks, however. He’s actually a little cold.

Sirius sits up, fingers already wrapped around his wand. Bellatrix’s face swings into view, dark and heavy-lidded. Behind her, Narcissa is whispering something to another blonde Slytherin boy.

It takes less than a second to see all this, to identify the swing under his feet as the sway of a train at full speed, and to fly into a spitting rage.

“You cheating bitch!” he shouts and flings himself at Bellatrix. He would have made it, too, would have scratched her face and clawed at her eyes, if another voice hadn’t said, alarmed,

“Sirius, don’t!”

It’s Regulus.

“ _Petraficus totalus_ ,” says Bella lazily, swinging her wand. “I told you we should have just done that as soon as we got him on the train. He’s so wild, like an animal.”

Sirius tries to burn them with his eyes.

“Did you really think, cousin, that you could skip out on Christmas? What a silly boy,” says Bella. He hates them, all of them. It’s the madness, but he’d truly be happy if they burn alive, or their brains turn to blood or they get the Cruciatus until their hearts burst.

“I had to volunteer to come collect you myself. Cissy couldn’t procure any potion for dreamless sleep on such short notice. I happened to have some on hand.”

They didn’t use the Imperious, they spiked his pumpkin juice. He can even remember exactly when it was done – Narcissa came by to wish him happy holidays in her icily nasty fashion. James had flicked a bit of napkin and pork dumpling at the back of her head and they’d thought nothing more of it.

Burn, burn, and burn.

Remus is going to think he’s changed his mind. That he was scared or disgusted and was running back to his pureblood family to tell them what a horrible Dark Creature had infiltrated the school. He and James and Peter all agreed to stay over holidays. Remus had gotten a letter from his Mother, which said something about “very sorry” and a lot more in Welsh. Remus whispered something about a bunker on the side of a hill, and doors iced closed.

“Such language,” says Narcissa. “Don’t call your cousin those names in front of your little brother. It’s no wonder Auntie Walburga won’t let you near him anymore.”

She’s embarrassed that he’s making a scene in front of Malfoy. She’s family and so is Regulus, but she cares more for fucking Malfoy. Bella has always been insane, but there was a time she was on his side. There was a time they all leaned close and whispered blood runs thicker.

They’ve paralysed him again. Sirius has been reading books smuggled out of Remus’s collection; a lot of them have information on wandless spells. Probably Remus got curious when he brought it up in class all those months ago. Either way, it’s been useful. James has come with him in the cloak to abandoned classrooms and they’ve practiced together, but there is nothing he can do yet but make a piece of parchment twitch, or change the direction of a bubble mid-air.

It’s a joke. How does one fight the shackles of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black with paper scraps and soap bubbles?

He will. Someday, he will. Sirius doesn’t even know what he’ll be fighting for, just that it’s out there.

This does nothing about abandoning Remus. Upon his arrival in Grimmauld Place they take away his owl and every once in a while, most notably on Christmas morning, Kreacher fries torn-up scraps of his friends’ letters with Sirius’s eggs. Father pretends Sirius is making this up and makes him eat them. Sirius does and hopes, darkly, for ink poisoning, and chews with his mouth open in everyone’s face.


	5. The Ides of March

“Caesar: The ides of March are come.  
Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar, but not gone.”

-William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"

 

Several letters which were sent out of the window of the Gryffindor Common Room, Christmas 1972:

 

_Sirius Orion Black_   
_Black Household,_   
_London_

_Sirius,_

_We don’t think you meant to skip out on us. What’s going on, mate?_

_Peter_

 

 _Sirius Black  
Someplace Blacky  
London_ _, England_

_Sirius,_

_It was the pumpkin juice, wasn’t it? And your cousin, the blonde one who hangs out with Malfoy, with Snape always trailing after them like a lost little baby snake. She put it in, whatever it was.  
_

_I am trusting you to be perfectly fine and not dead in a ditch somewhere. Do not die when we all went to the trouble of sneaking off to Hogsmeade for your presents in the bitter cold. It would be a waste, my lad, a waste of our suffering._

_You should know Remus doesn’t blame you. He’s a bit jumpy, but then, isn’t he always? Blast, that was insensitive, wasn’t it? Alice Shepperd’s taken to glaring at me across the common room muttering “insensitive little prick”. I have yet to show fear; be proud, good sir. However, I’ve no idea what she’s on about. I think it’s that thing I did to Evans’s teeth right as she was about to leave, but I’ve no idea why that would merit such rage._

_(Remus says I should’ve written “animosity” there instead of “rage”, but then he went a bit pink and ran off, muttering to himself. Does that a bit, doesn’t he?)_

_But really. It only took us a day or two to convince him you hadn’t gone on your own, which is a tad slow for Remus Lupin Of The Higher Intelligence Than All You Gits. I think he’s a little touchy on the You Know What subject. Don’t worry, mate. He doesn’t think you ran off on purpose. We all saw your awful Slytherin cousin come by, and he actually agrees with my pumpkin juice theory._

_Happy Christmas, mate. See you after New Years._

_James_

_P.S. We haven’t talked him into writing you yet. He says if your parents see his name anywhere they’d likely go nutters. I tried to explain that they don’t like my family either, and think Pete’s isn’t worth noticing, but he says it’s different. We’ll keep trying._

 

And One Letter Which Arrived:

 

 _Remus Lupin  
Hogwarts_ _School_ _of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Gryffindor_ _Tower_  
Scotland

_Remus,_

_I’m sending along well-wishes from your mother and me. We were glad to hear nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, and you’re free to enjoy your holidays. Your mother was worried you’d be alone in the castle, so it’s good to know you have some classmates there. Remember not to become lax simply because there are fewer people around._

_Your mother tried to send you a few letters, but she’d never sent any on her own before and didn’t realise that Muggle post won’t work for getting letters to Hogwarts. Don’t worry, she’s not upset that I have to send this along for her – you know how she doesn’t like feathers all over her kitchen, much less getting close enough to_ _Dylluan’s talons to attach a letter._

_Without further ado, your Mam’s original letter:_

_Hello, Remus!_

_Your father looked at your mid-term marks for me and says you’re studying hard. Good boy._

_I’m sending along those photographs you asked for, for the Elvis Presley fan. They’re a little faded, but I think they’ll do._

_Remus – it’s good that you’re doing nice things for people, like this girl, but please be careful. You know what I mean, love._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Mam_

_P.S. We’re so sorry about the bunker door. Your father tried something with his wand and the ice, but I think he’s out of practice because he melted some of the ice but also melded the metal hinges together. I’m sure he’ll have them fixed in time for Easter, and we can see you again._

 

It’s strange that year, Christmas and the reunion with Sirius after. Because Remus hadn’t sent any mail, his Christmas present is the only one Sirius gets from his friends. The rest his parents take before he can touch them and say, “You’ll get these when your behaviour improves.”

Sirius is fairly certain his behaviour has never improved in his entire life. It’s been a downhill slope ever since he was drawn down the garden trellis to the distant lights of Soho all those years ago. Since he first gulped air on the railing over the stinking banks of the Thames.

It’s a book, of course, that Remus hands him. The wrapping job is atrocious and messy, and he’s used an old copy of the Prophet for the paper. Overall, Remus looks embarrassed to have to show it to him. Sirius is not embarrassed. He doesn’t even care, finally, that it’s book. The Daily Prophet rips away easily.

 It’s _Spellwork Beyond the Wand_.

 “I thought this was a library book?” says Sirius. Remus shrugs, hands in his pockets.

 “It’s copied from the library book,” he murmurs, the tiniest light of fun in his eyes, so small that Sirius isn’t sure whether it’s an illusion. “Madame Pince would never let me get away with nicking it. There’s a neat charm to copy lots of ink onto blank pages.” Another shrug, and a hand running through his flyaway brown hair. “I didn’t want to send it to you over the holidays.”

There’s no _I told you so._ But nor is there any mention of Wizarding copyright laws, which Sirius is _sure_ Remus knows. They share a little grin over that. It’s so nice, Sirius thinks, when a mind can keep up with his.

Sirius runs all the way up to the owlery with the book stuffed under his robes. He sinks down on a bench, doing his best to avoid owl droppings, and studies the book. Some tell-tale details are off. The ink pictures move slowly, in a stutter-stop motion. He runs his fingers over them, but they don’t respond. Remus did that, then. Sirius wonders how long it took. He imagines Remus quietly working away on this on Christmas morning, settled in one of the squashy armchairs watching Peter and James devoir Bertie Botts and dare each other with Cockroach Clusters. His wand would’ve moved with quiet surety over the parchment, a little almost-frown on the edges of his murmured spells.

There is a hot, fierce feeling of regret somewhere under Sirius’s collarbone. Even if it wasn’t his fault, he should have been there.

He thumbs through _Spellwork Beyond the Wand_ , not really looking at the spells – the wandless spells he can pore over later. Even when his fingers are numb and owls have begun roosting on his shoes, Sirius still flips the pages.

He’s not even thinking about spells anymore. He’s thinking about the sliver of waning moon hovering just outside the wide owlery windows in the milky sky. Aside from Astronomy lessons, Sirius has never paid much attention to the moon, but he’s got the phases mostly memorized; it’s the only way to keep his marks up. He looks at it now, smoothing the pages absently. Because he can’t sit still a moment longer, he gets up to pace.

The owls coo reproachfully. The moon throbs in the twilight sky, wrapped in tendrils of mist off the Forbidden Forest. Sirius feels the weight of the book in his fingers, the wind in his hair. No matter how many times he looks away and then back again, the moon is always there, brighter and brighter in the growing twilight.

 

It isn’t until late February that they have the idea to go to Hogsmeade on the full moon, and…see. That’s how they said it, just “see”.

 “We need to understand,” says James. “We can’t pretend we don’t know where he’s going and that we don’t know what’s happening to him. What kind of friends will we be if we don’t even try?”

 So they follow him. The full falls on the night of the fifteenth of March.

 

When the night comes, Peter is shaking; they feel it under the invisibility cloak all through the halls of the castle to the hunchbacked statue, but he doesn’t say a word against what they’re doing. Just keeps striding steadily down the tunnel, wand up with _Lumos_ on its tip. That’s the bravery of Peter. James thinks it must be exhausting.

He and Sirius, on the other hand, get tunnel vision that makes nothing more important than their goal. Sirius is imagining the grounds above their heads, dewy grass awash in light, and the moon flinging itself wildly across the sky, whirling like a dervish. There is no thought of detentions, not even a glimpse of consideration of just how close they’re going to get to a Werewolf. He licks his lips and picks up his stride. James, in the lead, matches him and Peter follows along, swearing softly when they hit a tree root or a stone lodged in the tunnel floor.

It’s hard to think “Werewolf” when he thinks of it as “Remus”. James warned them all to be careful, but Sirius often has a very different definition of careful, which his friends know all too well. James probably gave him the loophole on purpose.

The air tastes like earth with a tang of something that sets the hair on the backs of their necks on end. They don’t recognize this as the feeling of being prey. They ignore it.

The tunnel is sloping upwards and the smell of sugar and spices is wafting down, for those who care to notice. The Honeydukes cellar is not far. James trails his hand on the ceiling and before long, his fingers hit the trapdoor.

 _"Alohamora,”_ he whispers with a grin. Even on a night like this, he can take a little pleasure in breaking and entering.

Sirius climbs out first, because his reflexes are as quick James’s and he isn’t carrying the cloak under his arm. No one is there. He beckons his friends up, and they throw the cloak over themselves. The last Sirius sees of them is Peter’s pale hair disappearing into the shadows. Then there is cloth being thrown over Sirius’s own head.

They spell the doors of Honeydukes locked behind them and creep down the sleeping streets. It is cold still, just the fifteenth of March, and the streets are muddy with snowmelt. It’s strange in the night-time. Even the cheery lights are out in the houses and the Three Broomsticks. Down the way, they pass the only light in the village. The Hogs Head never really closes.

They hear Remus before they realize he’s the one making the noise. It’s far off, and just sounds like the wind in the Forbidden Forest. At the outskirts they begin to climb, leaving the neat hedgerows and still winter-dead gardens behind. The way becomes rocky, like the crags and caves in the mountain beyond. The whispers on the wind become more defined, and they can see a dark shape of a decrepit building above them on the slope. James has his wand up in _lumos_. Sirius draws his own, and Peter copies him.

On a rocky hilltop above their path, the shack looms closer. The howls become easily discernable; shrieks too. This is an animal alive with rage and agony.

Something deep inside themselves tells them to turn back.

Sirius doesn’t take orders well, even when they come from his own instincts. He slips out from under the cloak, ignoring Peter’s surprised squeak. Except for his face and his hands, Sirius is dark hair, dark eyes, and his long black school cloak whipping around him in the March wind. He is a sliver of a shadow. James strips off the Invisibility Cloak and he and Peter follow at an eager trot.

The shack is alive. It is trembles, it roars; it is a chaos of the howl of destruction. The moon illuminates it all. They should be glad for the light, Sirius thinks, it helps them to see, which is what they’ve come to do. But the three of them halt twenty feet from walls which look too weak to contain the raging presence of the Werewolf within. Knowing who it is in the shack, trapped in that body, makes it all harder to see than Sirius expected.

Sirius and James exchange glances. It’s not fair to Remus if they can’t even look at him, if they give into the agony that is just listening to the howls and wet growls and screams a wolf should not be able to make. They have to go closer.

“That’s Remus,” says Peter thickly, blue eyes wide.

He says it more out of shock than anything, of a desire to make a noise that sounds human amidst all these animal screams. However, the boys beside him take it as a reminder. They edge closer.

It’s sheer coincidence that they’re approaching downwind of the Werewolf. It can probably sense them, but it can’t smell them. Their feet crunch on the stony earth, but they don’t even consider the wolf’s ears until they’re just two paces from the shack’s wall.

The Werewolf charges across the shack impossibly fast – they can hear its feet drum on the floors – and slams into the rickety wooden barrier in front of them. There is a glance of gnashing teeth and tawny fur through the slats.

Peter shouts. It’s swallowed by the wind, this wickedly cold, furious wind from the north. Sirius’s hand is fisted in the sleeve of James’s robe, half to steady the both of them and half of a mind to drag them away.

He drops James’s arm and grits his teeth. This is a Werewolf. This is also Remus.

“He doesn’t want us to see him like this,” says James. None of them had really realized just what they’d find here.

Sirius’s breath hisses between his clenched teeth. His eyes are narrowed against the wind and the noise, but he doesn’t close them, not even to blink.

It’s more complicated than just that, he thinks. Remus doesn’t want them to see him as a Dark Creature. He doesn’t want them to have to witness it. But he’ll never believe that they’ve truly accepted him if they’ve never seen him at his worst.

So Sirius shakes his head and makes up his mind. He doesn’t bother explaining to James and Peter. James will figure it out in a minute anyway; their minds are hardly ever more than the littlest bit unsynchronized. Sirius steps forward. The Werewolf must be racing about the house, searching for an exit which, hopefully, doesn’t exist. A few more steps in the rocky soil. He could touch the shack now.

Because he can, he has to.

Sirius lifts his hand, shaking a little. His own skin looks alien and pale in the moonlight. The side of the shack is old wood, rough under his fingers and prone to splintering. He can’t see anything through the slats.

“Sirius!” shouts James. Peter chokes. Sirius turns, hand still on the shack as if he cannot let go.

“Get away from there, Sirius!” James beckons, his black cloak whipping in the wind.

Sirius is thinking about being trapped. He’s thinking of moths that beat at windowpanes. He’s thinking of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, where he’ll live forever after his father dies. He’s thinking about Bellatrix waving her wand and leaving him petrified. He’s thinking how it feels to be alone, and trapped, and mad with it. He’s thinking, for the first time, that maybe Remus would be the person who understands it all.

“Sirius, listen to me, you git!” shouts James.

“What?” Sirius taunts. “Scared?”

Somehow he doesn’t hear the wolf coming. One moment it’s howling in some room across the shack, the next, with an almighty crash, it’s right up against the wall, lunging for him through the wood. Something seizes his palm by the flesh, searing and jagged and gives an awful tug.

Sirius makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat of surprise and pain, and then Peter and James are each at his shoulders, wrenching him back and away.

“Merlin’s fucking burning balls,” shouts James, and the swearing startles even Peter out of panic. They tumble to the ground, Sirius holding his hand by the wrist and staring at the blood that’s blooming so red across his palm.

“WERE YOU BITTEN?” shouts James, right in Sirius’s ear. It’s like Sirius can’t hear him. He’s looking at his hand. There is something pale stuck in it. “SIRIUS YOU BLOODY GIT, WERE YOU BITTEN?” James demands again, grabbing Sirius’s shoulders and shaking.

“I don’t know!” Sirius finds the voice to shout back.

“Let’s get out of here,” gasps Peter, tugging at their robes. James swears again, but he follows Peter, dragging Sirius behind.

Partway down the road to Hogsmeade Sirius collapses against a tree, its branches creaking in the wind, and draws his wand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he pants. In wandlight he inspects the wound. Forces himself to look at the pale, hard thing imbedded in it.

A claw. It’s wicked long, at least two joints of one of his fingers. He tugs it from his skin and lets a long breath escape. Sirius leans back and hands it to James.

“Just a scratch,” he says as lightly as he can manage.

“Of course,” James agrees weakly.

“I want to go back,” Sirius says, standing.

James grabs him. He doesn’t say anything, unlike Peter who is babbling in shock, his words lost in the fierce teeth of the March wind. James just stares him down.

“Think about it, Sirius.”

Sirius looks at the blood on his hand and listens to the Werewolf’s frenzied howls in the distance. It’s slamming itself against the wall of the shack, again and again, shrieking in pain and outrage.

His face twists, but he goes with them. It feels like the most awful betrayal to leave Remus like that. James understands, Sirius can see it on his face, but James is looking at some bigger picture Sirius can’t see. Sirius respects that, but keeps glancing over his shoulder.

If one of the little old ladies of Hogsmeade had poked her head out of a window, she’d see one boy, and if she was smart, the two more sets of footprints appearing in the stiff mud. The one boy would be lean and dark haired. He’d keep staring over his shoulder, as if he thinks the moon is following him. She’d think him strange, but she’d have seen stranger.

They go back faster than they came, through the sleepy streets and into the sugar-warm of the Honeydukes cellar; through the trapdoor.

“If you think about it,” pants James as they race back down the tunnel, running to beat the dawn, “That was what Remus saw, wasn’t it? The night he was bitten.”

James stops dead in the tunnel, nearly knocking Peter off his feet. “Only there wasn’t anything between him and the Werewolf. Even after seeing that, even after Sirius being a right idiot, none of us can imagine it.”

“We’ll help him James,” says Peter, brushing dirt out of his blonde hair.

Sirius agrees so wholly that he cannot even speak. They _have_ to. They’ve seen the before, and the during, and the after. There’s no turning away now. There’s no wanting to.

“Yes, we will,” says James fiercely. In the dark, in a tunnel under the earth, in the night of the ides of March, it doesn’t feel silly to make vows like this.

 

  It’s a couple days before they stop twitching at noises, and a week until Remus stops flinching when he feels anyone’s eyes on him. They tell him the morning after. James thinks it’s best. Don’t keep it a secret.

“The groundskeeper keeps scarier pets than you in his cabin,” James says, and Sirius nods, very nonchalant, from the windowsill. He’s got his good leather gloves on, but it’s still cold for March. There’s no reason for Remus to suspect he’s hiding a gash on his hand.

“Calm down, mate,” says James to Remus’s stiff form by the window. “You were just a bit…furrier than normal.”

Even Remus grins a little. “Well. I certainly hope none of you lot are allergic.”

Peter sneezes. James laughs, but Remus takes the chance to look carefully at Sirius. Under scrutiny, Sirius resists the urge to fidget. Lounging on a windowsill is cool. Fidgeting is not.

“Be right back,” mutters Sirius as James catches his breath. He hops off the windowsill – best get rid of the possibility of fidgeting his way to an early grave, right? – and heads for the door. Right on the threshold Sirius realizes he has no idea where he’s going or what he’s going to do when he gets there. Possibly he should just keep going, and decide this is not an issue?

Then James says, “Hey, Sirius, don’t you dare go waltzing off without me. We said we’d do the Herbology part of the prank together.”

“I don’t want a part in it,” Peter says aside to Remus. “It involves that passageway in the dungeons, the one that’s a mud pit.”

“Is that were you decided to grow the Notoriously Nefarious Nettles then?” asks Remus. “Go wallow in the mud, you heathens.”

“What’s a heathen?” demands Sirius. “Do I make a good one? I do, don’t I.” He turns to James. “Heathen, I like it.”

James puts his finger to his chin. “Hmm, not quite,” he says, pondering it.

“Oh, and it rhymes with Hufflepuff,” gasps Sirius. “No, that will not do. Never fear, we’ll find another one.”

He and James slip out the door to Remus’s scream of “No, no, please, not rhyme – it’s alliteration! I KNOW YOU KNOW IT’S ALLITERATION.”

Certain Remus is as unenthused as Peter about following them to the muddy pit of Nettles (Sirius genuinely cannot see where the problem is), the gloves are tugged off and thrown on top of a stack of Remus’s books, where they will sit untouched in the common room. No Gryffindor touches anything even remotely near Remus’s books – not even Shacklebolt, who is possibly as big as the four of them put together. Thus, the Book Zone is a great place to put expensive things one doesn’t want stolen, but one is too lazy to put away in one’s dormitory.

Sirius wouldn’t go to all the trouble to take the gloves off in the first place, except the Nettle gets offended at the sight of gloves. Seems to think they don’t trust it.

So it’s in a state of glovelessness that they traipse through the portrait hole, ducking past the Fat Lady’s glare – and running right into Madame Pomfrey, because they are just that lucky, apparently. She looks hassled and in a hurry and all three of them really, really don’t want to spend any more time in close proximity. They jump apart rather quickly, but not before Pomfrey’s gaze zooms in on the cut across Sirius’s palm. It hasn’t closed, and tends to seep blood every now and then.

“Mr. Black, how in the world did you get a gash like that and not come straight to the hospital wing?” she demands.

Sirius and James exchange quick, wide-eyed glances. They only know a little about Werewolves, more since they found out about Remus, but it feels like they’ve barely scratched the surface. What if Madame Pomfrey has a hidden lycanthropy obsession, and can spot a Werewolf slash from twenty paces? They’ll be covering Werewolves sometime in fifth year – what if there are signs that differentiate a Werewolf wound from others, really clear signs any wizard fifteen and above can observe in a heartbeat, provided they’re not a dunderhead? They should’ve asked Remus.

Pomfrey is waiting. She arches an eyebrow and holds out her hand.

“I’d really rather keep the scar, Madame Pomfrey,” says Sirius in a way he knows is just the right amount of boyish fun and his personal charm.

“Oh yes,” breaks in James. “It’s a terribly memorable…memory, you know. Sirius here,” – he slings an arm around Sirius’s shoulders – “has vanquished a terrible patch of Notoriously Nefarious Nettles, with only a little help from yours truly.”

“They’re growing in the school, Madame Pomfrey,” says Sirius. He presses a hand to his heart and moans. James kicks him with a careful-there-mate look. “We were wandering about, looking for a loo down in the dungeons, after potions. So the four of us poked around a new corner –”

“The _four_ of you?” asks Madame Pomfrey, looking from Sirius to James.

“Of course,” says James, looking a little offended that anyone could expect them to be apart on such an important expedition.

“All of you at once, looking for a bathroom? Mr. Potter, please don’t tell me you four have managed to synchronize your bladders.”

She uses the ensuing, uncomfortable silence of Dear Merlin Have We Really? to grab Sirius’s hand, where it’s lain forgotten at his side. Sirius shouts “Hey!” and tries to yank away, but her grip is like iron.

Pomfrey glares. She whips out her wand and is halfway through muttering “Really, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about” when she realizes her spell hasn’t done anything. Sirius doesn’t dare look at James, but his mind is racing. He feels oddly cold all over, because this is utterly his fault. He could’ve just waited to take the gloves off in the dungeon and not worry that dragon hide tends to start smelling in enclosed spaces like robe pockets oh _Merlin_ –

Pomfrey frowns and murmurs another spell, waving her wand over his hand again. The fleshy edges of the cut wiggle in a sickening manner but make no move to knit back together. She stays staring at the hand for quite a while, not doing anything. Her fingers are dry and cool, wrinkles thick around the joints.

Finally she looks up, the faintest tremble to her lips. Sirius is very still. James is an inanimate shadow in the corner of his eye.

Pomfrey says, “This is not a wound inflicted by a magical nettle.”

Somehow Sirius grins. It takes an incredible amount of willpower. “Of course it is, matron,” he says. She hasn’t given his hand back.

Her eyes are toffee brown; not noticeable unless one is staring straight into them for a prolonged period of time. She is kind, this woman, and she is good at her job.

“Nasty Nettle,” mumbles James.

Pomfrey has yet to take her eyes from Sirius’s. He doesn’t give her an inch; let her see steely gray irises and lowered lids and nothing else.

“Mr. Black,” she finally chokes out, apparently falling back on professionalism. She lowers his hand but does not let him go. “If this is…of a more serious nature, you _must_ tell me or the Headmaster. Immediately.”

Sirius has to bite back a laugh, of all things. None of them will say it! All three of them trembling with the secret, but no one will give voice to it. Better for Remus, he thinks darkly.

“Don’t worry, Madam Pomfrey, the Notoriously Nefarious Nettle gave me its good side. No lasting harm done whatsoever.” He waves her off with his other hand.

She only relaxes for a second. To replace the horror comes a spark of fury.

Her whisper is low and harsh, a candle blown by a fast breath and singeing its wax, claws on stone. “If I ever see another wound like this on any of the three of you, I’ll see to it you’re removed from the school for the protection of yourselves and those around you. _Never again_ , Mr. Black, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Pettigrew too, do you understand me?”

It’s possible that they nod. Sirius isn’t sure. There’s a buzzing in the back of his head.

They turn to leave and Pomfrey grabs Sirius’s arm again. “Black,” she says, “I know you four, and the way you act, the risks you think nothing of taking. But one day one of you will do something so stupid it will be the end of at least one of your member. I am deadly serious. This is not one of your games!”

Sirius turns on his heel to face her and says shortly, “No, he is not.”

 

Nearing the end of exams, they’re taking a fifteen minute break, which has stretched an hour so far, to discuss a final year’s end prank, hopefully to rival the runaway flambé in their Charms exam the year before.

The flambé had started as an accident, though none of them will admit it. This year, it is Remus who suggests they put Flitwick’s obsession with Sticking Charms to better use. So far they’ve had plenty of practice, like spending the month of May panicking over an inability to stick a delicate tea service to the vaulted ceiling of the common room (Remus), application to the paws of Lily Evans’s cat, who was found on the ceiling of the Great Hall, looking very confused (James) or just generally being annoying in the dormitory (Sirius, Peter, and a sock mural).

“A little juvenile,” Remus says in response to James’s first suggestion to make a modern-art style tapestry including one sample from every Griffyndor’s underwear drawer. “And not in the way I normally mean. Also, I don’t want to see that. Ever. Just think, there must be something more spectacular. Something all the houses will notice.”

“You look like you already know,” says Sirius, narrowing his eyes.

“Spit it out then,” snaps James, tossing a pillow. Remus dodges; it hits Peter who lobs it back at Remus, smacking him square in the back of the head.

“Oof,” says Remus, and contemplates upping the ante and throwing a book. He’s got a copy of _Cheating Death: Charms of Defence_ in his hands, and it would be suitably ironic. However, it would probably break Peter’s spine upon collision. He winces and puts it neatly in his trunk.

To the rest of them he says, “No, I don’t know. I’m just pointing out that James’s idea is deeply scarring and that flipping the common room would be the first thought of anyone armed with a sticking charm and bad intentions.”

James sticks up his nose and sniffs. “Not _everyone_ , Remus. Apparently Evans believes they are to be used to do _boring_ things like _hang paintings._ ”

“You obsess over Evans too much,” groans Sirius. “Remus is right. We need something with a bang!”

“Er, maybe no bangs,” says Remus hastily.

“Always bangs,” breathes James, who recently turned thirteen and is attempting to learn how to properly leer. He pats Remus on the back hard enough that only those reflexes he’s not sure he’s supposed to have keep him standing.

Sirius grins and Remus catches him at it. “Oi,” Remus says, “Don’t laugh at my pain!” But once Sirius starts laughing there’s no stopping him, and soon they’re all in a shouting scuffle, too busy trying to breathe between guffaws for Remus to notice an angry, funny-coloured scar on Sirius’s hand, when he forgets himself and draws it out of a pocket of his robes.

Well, nearly. No one can say Remus isn’t observant. He stares at the scar, the odd greyish tint to the shiny healing skin, so familiar yet so alien on someone else’s skin. It can’t be. No one could be so insane, so reckless. Not even Sirius. And, Remus consoles himself, no one would ever dare get so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lupins's owl is literally just named "Owl" in Welsh. When it was first brought home Remus's mum looked at it, looked at Remus's dad, looked back at the owl, and chewed on an unlit cigarette until Mr. Lupin attempted to break the silence to ask "what should we name it, darling?". And Remus's mum said 'it's a goddamn owl, just call it an owl'. Remus, age 11, then did the intelligent thing and removed Owl from the vicinity of Mrs. Lupin's kitchen. That was that.


	6. Grudges in Grimmauld Place, Summer in Snowdonia

“Even the tiger runs and hides when [the little jackal] goes mad,

for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature.”

\- Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Books

 

Summertime.

Sirius wakes to the combined stench muggy heat and sour sweat. He’s not sure what has roused him; all the sounds come dim through the window and the street and shrivelled park across the way shimmer outside. The bedsheets are emerald silk and stifling, the heavy velveteen curtains seem to hold the humidity and press it inwards. Kreacher sometimes “forgets” to cool Sirius’s room. In a summer like this, it’s maddening.

Indignation towards the Black’s house elf pulls Sirius to full alertness, so that suddenly, as if it’s just started, he can hear the screaming and shouting and feet on the stairs that woke him.

He bolts up in bed just as his bedroom door crashes open.

“Sirius!” his mother shrieks, mouth comically wide, “Get up, you lazy son, get up! Oh, desecration!” Her hand, pale and shot through with blue veins, rests on his doorknob. It shakes. Sirius stands by his bed and stares. There is more running on the stairs, more voices coming from all over Grimmauld Place. He cannot believe there are so many here, in an Unplottable place his mother is so protective of. Behind her he spies a flash of silver: Narcissa’s hair gleaming in the dark hallway, her small, pretty face wary and closed.

“What?” he demands his mother, trying not to stare at cousin Narcissa who hangs back and reveals nothing. Sirius is in his pyjamas, which he and James charmed red and gold last semester. Sirius had been hoping to try the spell on his curtains today, with Mother and Father and darling Regulus off for tea with Narcissa and the Malfoys. But Narcissa is here, standing tight-shouldered like a guard behind his mother in the hall.

Walburga just hisses, in a voice hoarse already, “Downstairs, Sirius. Now.”

He considers staying where he is just to defy her, but the house is alive with whispers that grow to yells, none of it discernable with all the protection spells for eavesdropping his parents have employed.

His mother sweeps out, her robes rippling behind her; shimmering black silk and crushed green velvet, inlayed with rough diamonds which glint like stars in the blackness. Sirius thinks first that he hates stars. He thinks second that these are his mother’s “robes of occasion”. But what occasion?

Narcissa follows like a silver shadow.

Merlin, Sirius hopes his father isn’t dead. The idea of it, of being head of this family of knives and teeth, makes Sirius physically ill. His mother would have told him, surely? He fumbles with an eagle-feather quill on his desk just to have something in his hands.

It is so hot in Sirius’s room. The window is open and the morning sun pours in like a conquering army. Sirius tries to take strength from it, to take some of its warmth. He pulls on his robes and the shoes his parents have bought – his mother burned the ugly boots he wore all of second year on sight. The sitting-room stank for days of scorched rubber.

At the top of the stairs Sirius listens, ignoring his Uncle Alphard who seems to have taken refuge with him on the landing. Sirius likes Alphard as much as he can be said to like _any_ of this wretched excuse for a family, but there probably isn’t time for him now. Alphard does not seem to care. He just watches Sirius with tired, wary eyes.

Uncle Cygnus is there, downstairs, and his presence makes only slightly more sense than Uncle Alphard’s. Uncle Cygnus is shouting with Sirius’s mother, and Sirius cannot tell if they are about to go for their wands or are simply agreeing very viciously and at top volume.

Bellatrix is standing a little away from her father, closer to the raging fire in the dining room hearth. Her face in the firelight looks too overcome with loathing to speak or move at all. Narcissa is at the table now, her hands twisted together, and there’s little Regulus in a corner behind their mother, looking ashen and small in black robes. There’s more, too – Uncle Ignatus, Aunt Lucretia, Grandfather Arctucus, Grandmother Melania, others obscured in the shadows. Aunt Druella stands apart from her daughters looking grim and ill even as Narcissa tries and fails to catch her mother’s eye. While Sirius observes from the stairs, Kreacher tries to offer Aunt Druella more tea. She throws her empty teacup at his face. Aunt Druella was a Rosier before she married Cygnus Black, and her destructive tendencies well match the Rosiers Sirius knows at Hogwarts.

But there are a few missing. Where is his father? And Andromeda is not here either. Sirius feels that old anger rising, that _she_ can skip out; _she_ can all but run away. She has the gift of the middle child, with none of the expectations for Bellatrix nor the coddling of Narcissa. It’s like a permanent invisibility cloak.

Uncle Cygnus is saying, “We bring her here, Walburga, to face what she has wrought!”

But already Sirius’s mother screams over him, “Never, never, not in this house! You’d befoul the house of our Fathers with your filthy spawn! Are you a traitor as well, brother?” she demands. Sirius wonders, awfully, if he will ever talk to Regulus this way. Behind him, Alphard fumbles with a cigarette. They are probably well down the path, Regulus and he. Oh, burn it, where is his father?

“Don’t be dead you evil burning man,” mutters Sirius.

Uncle Alphard gives a short, dry laugh. “No, Orion’s not dead yet,” he says and mutters, “ _Incendio_. Too bad, but there’s hope yet.” He sucks on the lit cigarette, then presses a couple fags into Sirius’s palm. They are damp, from sweat or humidity or who knows what. Alphard doesn’t wait for a response, just pushes past him and says, “Don’t mind me, Sirius. I’m getting out of here.”

It’s strange to watch a full grown man act like the teenager Sirius rightly is, as of a few months ago. Uncle Alphard storms sulkily down the stairs and into the front hall, then presumably out the front door. Sirius pockets the cigarettes – maybe he’ll send some to James and Remus and Peter. He’d like to see Remus try a smoke; cheeks hollowed in and trying not to cough. James stole one of his Mum’s last month and said it was “just fine, Sirius, you should try it” but Peter had written separately and said James had nearly hacked up a lung.

Sirius bets Remus wouldn’t have to cough at all.

With a jolt Sirius comes back to himself, standing alone on the stifling stairs, Grimmauld Place swarming below him like an anthill after an earthquake.

When he finally descends, the name hits him like a swarm: “Andromeda, Andromeda” from every corner of the room. The portraits are echoing it, hissing. His mother is saying, in a voice like shredding parchment, “No, no forgiveness, it must be the tapestry!” Druella and her two daughters, the third now so obvious in her disappearance, her luck, her invisibility cloak torn from her shoulders, nod eagerly at their Aunt Walburga’s words. Cygnus’s eyes bulge – good Merlin, nearly every person in this room has the same eyes, except for the married-ins and their offspring and sometimes not even them. Gray eyes; mad eyes rolling in their sockets. The Black eyes.

Sirius would claw his own out if he could. Before he can think too much on this, or on the murder on Bella’s face, his father walks in, alive and well as Uncle Alphard promised.

“My Family, the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black,” he begins. His back is to the fireplace – why in Merlin’s name is there a fire on this sweltering day? – and his heavy features are obscured in shadow and flickers. “We are gathered to discuss the actions of one of our own which may show a blight on us all.” Narcissa’s mouth sets into a thin line and Bellatrix makes a noise that would be a growl if it weren’t so silky.

“There is nothing to discuss,” hisses his mother, and storms off in the direction of the drawing room. Orion’s eyes spark dangerously. Regulus keeps shifting from foot to foot, looking in the direction his mother has gone. Aunt Druella and a few others follow Walburga. The muscles along his father’s jaw tighten, but he gestures to the Blacks to follow his wife. “Come this way, kinsmen. We will decide in front of the tapestry.”

There is only one tapestry in the drawing room: the sprawling family tree which reaches back to kings and princes, powerful wizards, and dark ones. Sirius has always vaguely hated it, but that is nothing to set it apart from the rest of number twelve Grimmauld Place.

When they file in, his mother already has her wand raised, her sister-in-law beside her with stony eyes. “Do it, sister,” Druella says. The wand is pointed at the tapestry, at the curling medieval script that reads, instead of the name Sirius expects _, Andromeda Tonks._

“Walburga, a minute to decide,” says Sirius’s father.

“ _I know what you will decide if you are a man of the House of Black!”_ Walburga shrieks.

“In your place, wife!” Orion bellows. Silence reins. Walburga’s wand lowers a fraction. Father is not as openly insane as Mother, but there is a darkness in him that is even worse than hers, even more terrifying when it’s let out. They all edge back; they all defer. Even headstrong Bella, though that might just be an act; a bit of politeness for the family.

The drawing room is stifling. No one’s lifted a wand to cast a cooling charm, and the curtains are drawn against the hard light and petrol stink of the streets. They hold in the heat, the smell of the fire from the dining room and the sweat that beads on everyone’s cheeks.

“My niece, Andromeda, has committed a blood crime against the House of Black. She has married, not to strengthen our line, but to corrupt it.”

“It is a Mudblood boy,” Walburga snaps. She’s mostly under control now, spine straight and eyes steely.

Grandfather Arctucus wheezes, “destroy her!”

“Shut up,” says Grandmother Melania. “Do you realize how that will look? These are not our times, Arctucus.” She turns to Orion and Walburga, king and queen in their court. “We do not know her. She is no daughter of ours, no cousin,” she looks at Sirius and Regulus in turn. “No relation.” Sirius glares back.

Mother clutches at the sleeve of Father’s robe. “The tapestry, husband, the tapestry!” Her eyes burn with determination. Walburga always gets what she wants.

“As the Head of our most noble family, my wife and I order that Andromeda” –his jaw twitches – “Tonks be disowned.”

“And burned,” spits Walburga.

“Aunt, let me,” pleads Bellatrix, stepping forward. “I wish to distance myself from this traitor.”

“Quiet, niece!” shouts Walburga.

“You are but a branch, as yet, Bellatrix,” says Orion, his voice like thunder. “We are the trunk. We strike.”

Sirius is cold. These people are cold, this room which must be hot – it really must be, there is sweat on everyone’s lips – is frigid.

So she married. They’d planned for her to marry a Crouch boy, or maybe a Nott, and Sirius, like an idiot, had assumed she would eventually, after she’d avoided it as long as she could. Assumed because she was a Slytherin, maybe? As if he’s the only rebel in this house.

He will never see her again. She will never see her sisters, she will have no money. They are doing this to her in cold blood, erasing her life from their lives. Because they are embarrassed in front of their friends? There is a buzzing in Sirius’s ears. His fists are clenched in his robes.

Regulus’s face, in the corner of his vision, is dead white but set stubbornly. Maybe it’s different for other people, where family is not everything you know, everything you were raised to love. The only thing. To be disowned from this family is somehow, in all their minds, akin to being murdered.

“ _Expelliaramus_!” Sirius shouts suddenly, the only spell he can think of to buy time, when his mother’s wand rises again. Walburga is no fool, but she is not expecting this from a son; from this rotting and loyal clan. Sirius deflects whatever Bellatrix sends his way, but it puts his Father behind him – burn it, when there are fights at school, he always has James at his back, Remus at his wand hand, Peter leaping in to help, so he hasn’t thought of this – and Orion strikes him down with a stunner.

It’s weak; he’s come around in seconds.

“Stop it,” Sirius snarls. “She doesn’t deserve this.” He strains at the invisible ropes Uncle Cygnus has shot from his wand.

“Our youth rot,” says Cygnus through gritted teeth. Narcissa and Bella put their hands to their chests and protest to their father that they will never follow in the path of their fallen sister.

“Rotting? That’s funny,” says Sirius, sprawled on the floor, “I was just thinking that about all of you. We’ll abandon her because she makes a choice of her own, just like that?” He laughs, and it is a mad laugh, but he is filled with too much rage, too much disgust with his family and himself and the blood in his veins to care. His heartbeat pounds behind his eyes. He’s not sure how he’s managed to keep talking. “All of you, rotten to the core!”

“Gag him,” says Grandmother Melania, “And make him watch.”

There is a slight pause.

“ _Incendio,”_ spits Walburga.

 

 

_Dearest cousin,_

_I’ve heard through the few friends I have left that you are on holiday in Wales, so I run the risk of sending this owl to you. Maybe as your family’s own Gryffindor you can find some appreciation in such risk-taking. Knowing your character, cousin, you would be more likely to send a letter to the heart of the Ancestral Home._

_If you ever find yourself in my condition, I do not hesitate to suggest you reconsider that particular course of action._

_I shall have you know, Sirius, that if you burn, or have already burned, this letter I will not be hurt in the least, but I would be disappointed: first in my faulty judgement of character, and second in yourself. Somehow I expect you are still reading._

_As I expect you have gathered, I have married Ted Tonks. We were Head Boy and Girl together in my last year, which you were not present for; as such you would not know him. Ted is Muggleborn, as I expect you have also gathered. Mention this fact in so much as a note to me and I promise, Sirius, as a dedicated cousin, to hex your genitals onto your face._

_If you do not feel so inclined, I am open to a correspondence, as I am rather lacking in relations._

_Much love,_

_Andromeda_

_P.S. Do not worry that you were not able to stop them from what they’ve done. I knew what would happen. I made my own choices._

_P.P.S. Sirius, unless it is absolutely necessary, do not allow yourself to be burned off your Mother’s tapestry. Take this as a warning._

 

            “How does she know I’m in Wales?” demands Sirius, who arrived at the Lupin residence five days ago and is glad of it, especially after the endless drama of the past few weeks at Grimmauld Place. He repeats his question, swinging the letter at Remus. Remus grabs it out of Sirius’s hand, mostly to stop it being waved in his face than any keen desire to see the contents. Nevertheless, the letter crumbles to ash as soon as Remus’s fingers touch parchment. He stares for a moment at the remnants stirring in the wind, under the shade of the cottonwood tree where they’ve taken shelter from the sun.

            “A bit paranoid, that cousin of yours,” says Peter finally, nudging a bit of ash with his toe. It crumbles further, disappearing into the grass. It’s a beautiful day in Wales, the first sunny one they’ve seen in the five days Sirius and Peter have come to stay. James is in France, and they’ve been laughing at him because, for once, it’s raining in France but not in Britain.

            Sirius’s lips pinch together and he looks out over the bluff at the distant sea. He wishes James would steal a portkey and make his way to Wales as fast as he can. “It’s more difficult than it used to be,” he tells Peter, annoyed to have to explain his family’s strangeness. “Everyone’s…tense I guess. At that house. In the family. No one’s been blasted off the tapestry since…I dunno, thirty years ago? There was some dispute over Grindewald. Someone didn’t support him, I can’t remember who, and the next little mistake they made – bam. Disowned.”

            Remus looks up from the sea that sparkles gray out on the horizon, and watches Sirius carefully.

            “Seems to me you’re a bit paranoid yourself, mate,” mumbles Peter, who has already settled back against the tree and fallen half into a doze. Remus’s parents have forbidden them from playing Quidditch, so they’ve just been lazing about. It makes Remus squirm with embarrassment and a dull anger directed towards his parents; he hates to be boring to his friends. And it’s not as if there are any Muggles nearby – except for his Mam, of course – so it’s just another one of their overprotective rules. Heck, if Mam hadn’t been on a rare visit to a friend in Aberystwyth, Remus would never have convinced his father to let them come at all.

Peter continues. “Never mind all the disownment – though it sucks mate, not gonna lie – but your cousin finding out you’re in Wales isn’t a huge feat. You said she mentioned hearing it from, y’know, people.”

            “Remus,” says Sirius slowly, “How dangerous do you think it would be to throw Peter off that cliff, right into the lovely Irish Sea?”

            Remus looks up fast, coltish, like he’s got an idea. “Oh, that’s perfect!” he says.

            Peter looks reasonably aghast. Sirius doesn’t hesitate – he just goes for the grab.

            “No, no, no, Sirius, I meant jumping off the cliff in…in a general sense!” Remus shouts, rushing over to save Peter.

            “How is that different?” Sirius asks in a moment of rare logical thought. Peter, half-slung over Sirius’s shoulder, sends begging eyes in Remus’s direction.

            “Betrayal,” Peter croaks when he is not immediately saved. Sirius huffs and hefts Peter higher. A sort of tug-of-war begins between Sirius and Remus with Peter stuck in the middle, even more distressed than before.

            “My idea is more likely to result to our living to a ripe old age,” admonishes Remus, giving a mighty tug on Peter’s arm. “Cliff-diving is fine if you know what you’re doing, and I used to do it all the time just a quarter of a mile from here.”

            Sirius and Peter stop tugging and squirming to stare. They try to imagine Remus throwing himself off a cliff for sport. This from the boy who doesn’t even like to get on a broomstick; who actually puked during flying lessons first year? They shake their heads at each other, former combatants made friends in the face of insanity.

            “What?” demands Remus, chin up. But his feet shuffle in the grass and there’s a grin tugging at his lips. It’s stunning, sometimes, how good a liar he is – good enough to seem like an open book the rest of the time. It makes Sirius feel a little privileged, truly privileged, not in the way of his family, but of being part of something small and special and secretive where his membership is based on friendship, not blood and status. This is the only place Remus doesn’t lie. With _them._

            So when Sirius opens his mouth to poke fun, what comes out instead is, “Lead the way, Monsieur le Cliff-Diver!”

            Remus darts out from under the shade of the tree, and has hardly begun to lift his hand to beckon them to follow by the time Sirius and Peter have caught up, eager for this daring and manly new sport. They walk along a trail where the rare Welsh sun beats down on them. There’s a steady wind off the sea that Remus knows will bring in the clouds that lurk on the horizon in a few hours, but for now the sky is blue and it’s all he could ask for.

            Peter is behind, letting Remus lead while he watches the countryside – he’s from a suburb of Bristol, and has taken a liking to the bogs and mountains. The Lupins’ cottage is just a few miles south of Snowdonia National Park, which is just about the only place in Wales foreigners find worth a visit, so maybe Remus can see how Peter would like the landscape. Remus wonders what Sirius thinks, as they pick their way along the path.

            How does a cottage on the side of a mountain and a shallow lake populated with grindylows stack up to London, even if it is just a short trip to the seaside? Remus doesn’t know anything about London, really. Just that it has St. Mungo’s and the Ministry and Diagon Alley and King’s Cross – and somewhere, Sirius’s house.

            Sirius is not bothering to follow Remus. He’s striding ahead on the path, head thrown back, hair just a little too long for a respectable boy. It’s all too striking against that blue sky, the green mountains rolling up lazily in the distance, the metallic sea.

            Remus laughs a little to himself and thinks, none of us are respectable boys.

            Sirius turns back, walking backwards on his dusty heels.

            “Share the joke Remus, honestly,” and Sirius laughs too, louder – the hypocrite – “That Lupin, a madman, I swear to you, Pete.”

            “Mad or not,” pants Peter, “Get us there soon, will you Remus? I’m on holiday, and it’s been over a year since Madame Hooch last yelled at me.

            “ _’Pettigrew, if you do not grow a little muscle to grip your broom you’ll slide off before you go anywhere at all!’_ ” quotes Sirius. “Lovely woman, wasn’t she? Such charm. Such love for her fellow man.”

            “Didn’t James dive-bomb her just after she said that?” asks Remus.

            Sirius whistles. “Sharp memory, Remus, I’d forgotten that.”

            “I hadn’t,” says Peter, huge grin on his face. “It was brilliant, and I even managed to fall off on top of Rosier while he was distracted.” He nods, blonde hair blowing around on top of his chubby face. “A resounding success.”

            Remus bites back a chuckle and says, “Here we are then.”

            Peter edges to the end of the cliff and jumps back. “Merlin’s beard, Remus! You’ve got to be kidding.”

            Sirius follows Peter. A slow grin builds on his face, a grin so big you can feel it in the air. “Oh, brilliant. _Brilliant._ Remus Lupin, you are currently my favourite person in the world.”

            “Oh dear,” says Remus. “Think of the Howlers James will send. His jealousy will be boundless.” He tries for doe-eyes, probably just looks _extremely_ mentally impaired. Remus makes a note to never do it again. “And to think, you’d throw him away for a measly death-defying cliff in smelly old Wales. You are a _loose woman_ Sirius Black.”

            Sirius scoffs. “Oh, I never see what the problem is there. Such a fuss when I simply spread the love. I gladly wander, without rule or guidance, into a moral wilderness! My pond is open for fishing!”

            Remus punches him lightly and turns back to the sea.

            “Save your pond for someone else,” he mutters.

            “How is it words come out of his mouth, in English, and still no one can understand him?” moans Peter. Remus gives him a little sliver of a smile, but doesn’t admit that there’s something to Sirius, even babbling Sirius, that is very possibly brilliant.

            It feels strange to be standing on the edge of a cliff without James there, like they’ll come apart at the ends. Like they should wait until he trots down the path before they begin. But they know he’s _somewhere_ and would be here if he could (because, come on, diving off a hundred feet of cliff definitely beats French pastries).

            “We can bring James here next time,” says Remus, and that makes them feel less traitorous.

            “Perfect,” says Sirius. “In James’s name, I pronounce this cliff dive fair and just, so long as Mr. Lupin keeps his word and brings Mr. Potter along next time.” They spit in their palms and shake. Remus wrinkles his nose and wipes Sirius’s saliva on his trousers when he thinks no one is looking.

            Sirius strips quickly down to his shorts, and Peter begins to follow.

            Remus freezes, finding the sudden flaw in his plan. They are back in Wales, and the Notis back around his neck on its spelled cord, waiting for his tongue to slip. He’d completely forgotten it, hanging under his Muggle T-shirt. Remus peeks under his collar at the old and worn wood, inscribed with the letters W.N. There are two little marks around the edges. Even after all these years, even though he’s thirteen now, not seven, their presence makes his stomach drop in a way that even peering off the edge of the cliff cannot.

            He can’t remember mentioning the werewolf, but the marks are unmistakably there. Maybe Sirius and Peter were the ones to bring it up, in an offhand word. Maybe someone – though he doubts it – admired the moon. None of the four of them like the moon so much anymore.

            Mam or Dad will be checking the Notfor marks as soon as Sirius and Peter leave tonight.

            “Get your kit off, Remus,” whinges Sirius. “You don’t have to take forever.”

            Remus grits his teeth. He knows better than to dive with too many articles of clothing. Sirius won’t let him back out now. With a scowl, he tugs the T-shirt over his head and toes off his sneakers.

            “What’s that, Remus?” asks Peter.

            “A Werewolf Not,” Remus says as if it’s nothing. From the corner of his eye, he can see Sirius’s hard grey gaze lock onto him.

            “Like a Welsh Not?” asks Peter. He catches Remus’s look of surprise. “Er, yeah. I once blew up a casserole, pretty much on purpose. This was before Hogwarts; I think I was seven? Mum was furious, and sent me to a Muggle primary school for a couple months as punishment. They were doing a unit on United Kingdom history.” He smiles at a recollection, blue eyes laughing. “That casserole was twenty feet long and seeping into the living room by the time a clean-up team had arrived. I’ve never regretted it.”

            When no one seems about to explain, further Sirius finally spits out:

            “What is it? What are these Not thingies?”

            Peter looks at Remus. He sighs, wishing they could just jump off the bloody cliff already.

            “A Welsh Not was used in the Victorian era. Nearly every classroom in Wales had one. If a kid was heard speaking Welsh, they’d get the Notaround their neck. If they heard another kid speak Welsh, they could pass the Not on to them.” He fiddles with the plaque around his neck. “Whoever had it at the end of the day got paddled.” He smiles wanly. “Great tradition of my country.”

            “Technically it was a British tradition,” Peter puts in, always fair.

            Sirius makes a little motion that says, go on.

            “I guess when I was bitten it was all Mam could think of that would teach me not to talk about…” he pauses and feels something rebel inside him, even though his friends have now seen the collar around his neck, like an animal’s, “…Werewolves.”

            Another little mark appears around the edge of the Not, as if an invisible knife is scratching it in. Remus fights the urge to pick up his shirt and hide it.

            “They used to check every night, but this summer it’s only been every few days. I don’t think they wanted to call attention to it in front of you two.”

            To Remus’s immense relief, they don’t seem to know what to say, so they let the subject go. He knows Sirius might brood about it later – probably just because Remus kept it from them – but he seems chipper enough now.

            Stripped down to their shorts, they grip each other’s wrists so no one can chicken out at the last second. Sirius’s hand is sweat-slicked, bones more delicate than his personality belies. Remus wonders what his own grip feels like.

            “To James!” shouts Sirius, as if this is a toast at some fancy dinner party, not their bare toes trembling on rock just inches from a swinging fall.

            “To James,” Remus and Peter echo. A thought occurs to Remus.

“Sirius, can you swim?” he demands. Sirius laughs, and with a whoop, drags them into a run to take that flying leap over the edge.

 

 

            Back in the cottage, Remus, Peter, and a half-drowned Sirius bring the smell of salt and seaweed and cold water inside with them. The Lupins have a little electricity in the cottage this summer which stuns Peter and Sirius. They spend the first half hour ogling one of the bare light bulbs Remus’s Mam has up in the kitchen, and what Mrs. Lupin calls a poppity-ping, which Sirius likes much better than Mr. Lupin’s explanation that it’s really named “microwave”. After all, Mrs. Lupin is a Muggle. She should know. Remus tries to explain something about dialects and regional slang, but it falls on deaf ears.

Eventually they settle down. Peter is whittling something, blonde brow wrinkled because he’s much better with cutting spells than he is with an actual knife. Sirius is sitting with a book.

            Remus doubles back, rubs his eyes, and stares. Sirius doesn’t even look up, just rapidly turns a page. He does it so fast it’s like he doesn’t even have the patience to wait while the parchment settles. Remus’s curiosity perks its head. He looks at the title for some sort of clue.

            Slightly obscured by Sirius’s knee are the embossed words which are probably burned into Remus’s skull, he took so long working on them: _Spellwork Beyond the Wand._

            Feeling embarrassed and strange, Remus turns away and tunes the wireless to something less like screeching and more jazzy. And if he’s a little too obsessive about getting the absolute perfect frequency with absolutely no static, well, who’s going to complain about that?

 Eventually Mam comes into the living room and eyes them with enough distrust that even Sirius can no longer pretend not to notice, and they head back to Remus’s tiny room to pack their things in preparation for the evening’s departure. The book, Remus notices, is put back into Sirius’s suitcase right away. They’re scheduled to Floo back in an hour or so – Bristol to spend the rest of the holiday with his parents for Peter, and to Malfoy Manor for Sirius. There seems to be some sort of party there which Sirius isn’t allowed to miss; Remus has only gotten grumbles and monosyllabic responses from Sirius so far.

            Peter hums something while he packs, an endless tune. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Remus winces as Peter tosses mud-splattered trainers onto a pair of once-clean underwear. Peter’s Mum’ll have a fit as soon as he gets back to Bristol, but it’s good that Pete can be messy here. Sure, it’ll be days of work getting Remus’s room back to its normal order and cleanliness, but he can’t begrudge his friends anything if they were willing to come out to his tiny little cottage for these few days. It’s not like anyone’s dared get mud on his books or his record player, anyway. No irreversible harm done.

            Sirius is – no surprise – not packing. His things are strewn across Remus’s floor and desk, and Sirius himself is sitting on the bed, tracking mud on the quilt.

            “Arse,” Remus tells him, in reference to the mud, but he seems not to hear. Sirius is watching fireflies. They weave in front of the dark window to the tune of Peter’s humming, captured in it somehow. Peter spills magic like that, but never seems to get the knack of harnessing it. Sirius looks hypnotised by the fireflies, and brings one pale finger up to the dark glass.

            He glances, dark hair, dark eyes, and says to Remus, “I wish they’d named me Lampyris.”

            This makes no sense. Remus doesn’t know the word, though he’ll look it up later. He can’t think of anything to say; his throat is dry. Sirius turns back to the window. The rain begins again, and the fireflies flee.

 

           

            Sirius appears a little while later in the kitchen, a packet of bright green Floo powder in hand. He’s in full dress robes of black silk. They’re dramatic, sweeping, edged with jewels. Each of his fingers glitters with a ring – or two – and he’s got a wooden walking stick, intricately carved in the form of a raven bursting from the throat of an adder.

            Remus is at the sink, and his mother sucks on a fag at the table, staring out at the rain that has commenced to fall again after the last dregs of twilight were sipped away from the sky. He can see the expression on Mam’s face when Sirius walks in, the shock, the…what? Awe?

            This must be what she thought all wizards were like. What they should be like. She has a wizard for a husband and another for a son, but maybe she doesn’t quite believe it, or remember it, half the time. Sirius looks like a real wizard. Sirius looks like magic incarnate, born into the form of a thirteen-year-old boy.

            Then he looks up, sees Remus’s Mam for the first time and says, “Ah, Remus’s Mother, any chance we can toss this into the fire before Pete and I leave?” He brandishes the walking stick like a child’s toy. “It’s annoying.”

            Remus laughs, laughs so hard he could be sick, and even if he was that might be funny too. He has to grip the dining table to keep himself standing and it rocks under his weight. Thank the stars for Sirius Black! None of them are perfect wizards, all of them must be a little insane, and Sirius can just walk into his tiny, meagre little life and kick Remus awake. He makes Remus remember that he is not a timid little boy anymore, and that he never really was, deep down.

            Sirius treats him to a quick grin, one that says I-don’t-get-it-but-enjoy-yourself-there-mate. Remus is so happy he and Peter were able to come, to break up the summer, to tumble over cliffs and ignore the Not around his neck, that if he were a girl, he’d probably cry.

            This would mean teasing beyond all conceivable belief, however, and Remus does not feel like dying of mortification today.

            His Mam is still staring at Sirius as if he’s grown two heads. Remus checks, just in case he missed it. With Transfiguration junkies like Sirius and James, you can never be too sure.

            Just one head. Thank goodness – imagine two Sirius’ talking at once. Remus shudders at the thought.

            Mam overcomes the shock of seeing a dressed up, fully Black Sirius enough to whisper, “You’re kidding, right Sirius?” Her cigarette dangles uselessly from her fingers.

            Remus is privately glad she knows Sirius’s name. It might mean she’s a step closer to accepting that he has friends. He knows she’s just scared. He’s beginning to realize, more and more, that she was just a girl when she ran off with his father, when she had him, when he was bitten. Just a girl, barely older than he. And she’s scared.

            “Not at all, Remus’s Mother!” chirps Sirius. He’s acting quite blasé, but Peter and Remus meet eyes with significant looks from across the kitchen. They can see the tightness in Sirius’s shoulders, the rage against confinement in his grey eyes. Peter mouths _Where’s he going?_ but Remus just shakes his head. It’s awful of him, but he’s a little glad that Sirius is so angry to leave. It means he has been happy here.

            “But it’s…it looks….” They all know Mam wants to say “expensive” but any fool who sees the rest of Sirius’s outfit can quickly deduct that expensive is not in his vocabulary. “Won’t you need it?” she finally finishes.

            “Not at all, er, Madame?” he looks to Remus. Sirius is great at choosing the right title for people – down to the lowly Baroness, that is. He is hopelessly lost with a Mr. or a Mrs. and most especially with parental figures.

            There is a story there, one they’ve all been hearing in bits and pieces. James has probably been told the most, but Remus is more intuitive and less optimistic than his bespectacled friend. He probably has the biggest picture.

            Even after nearly a year, he cannot leave behind that blue face on the platform and everything that raged up inside him.

            _You’ve made a lovely wolf pack for yourself, haven’t you Remus?_ He thinks to himself bitterly, letting Sirius and Mam’s conversation fall over him. It’s a mockery of loyalty, really.

            But with Sirius in the house he can’t think like that. Sirius, burn it, Sirius _shines_. Bright enough that some of it can reflect off of Remus. It’s like stumbling into sunlight completely by accident. Like a sudden breath in crushed lungs.

 

           

            Remus is falling asleep that night when he starts up in his bed with a phrase echoing around in his head. Something stupid and absolutely unintelligible Sirius said at the top of the cliff, about moral wilderness and ponds and other such nonsense. Glancing about furtively, he rushes to his bookshelf, and seizes several well-worn tomes without having to search. Feverishly, he flips through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for.

            His head jerks up, and he scowls at something invisible in the middle distance.

            “Oh God, he’s teasing me, isn’t he? _Two_ literary references in one breath. I _knew_ it! And who the hell combines Nathaniel Hawthorne and Shakespeare?”

            He buries his head in his hands. It’s like…like mixing cottage cheese and chocolate mousse, which is definitely disgusting but he’s rather hungry and hopes they have one or the other somewhere in the house. Still, it’s horrific and goes against every law of Sirius (and tasteful literary combinations) there is.

            But Sirius Black is too far away by now to scold for showing his unexpected and suspicious knowledge of Shakespearean sexual puns and nineteenth century literature, so Remus trudges back to bed. By morning he’ll have thoroughly convinced himself that it had been some sort of wild coincidence, or maybe a dream.

            A moment after his eyes close, however, he’s up again. It’s some stupid compulsion; he’s exhausted, really. This time, he simply copies down a dictionary definition, half-crushing one of his quills in his sleepy haste to get back to his damn bed and catch up on the sleep he missed by having his friends over for five days. Remus will keep this scrap of paper torn off the Daily Prophet crossword puzzle page for a long while without really meaning to. It reads:

 

 **Lam·py·ris** _noun_ \ˈlampərə̇s\ **:**   a genus (the type of the family Lampyridae) including common European fireflies. Found primarily in Britain; they thrive in old-growth grasslands in soil with high concentrations of limestone and chalk.Origin, New Latin, from Latin, glowworm, from Greek, from _lampein_ to shine — see lamp.

 

It’s a silly thing, the name Sirius gives himself the summer they are all thirteen. But Remus is selfish, Remus is greedy, Remus will take all the secret names of the friends he loves and hoard them, long after a boy who named himself Lampyris doesn’t seem to exist anymore. Long after.

 The sticky-sweet summer night wears on. Remus’s Mam forgets to turn out the light in the kitchen. Fireflies lose their way in the tall grass on the hills, and Remus falls asleep, warm-limbed on top of his quilt.


	7. In which there are some good theories, and some bad ones, and no daffodils at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long; I completely forgot I hadn't posted this chapter. Life's a bit insane and I'm in the process of selling out and getting a corporate job. I'm glad I still have fic; I really, really am.

Even though the rain is still falling in a light mist on the rolling French countryside, Mrs. Potter lights the candles on the veranda and casts an impervious charm on the swinging vines on the trellis above. It’s still a little damp, but James is very, very hungry and not about to complain.

Waiting for the house elf to bring out the first course and uninterested in some conversation his parents are having – potions trade restrictions in the Hungarian Ministry – James stares out across the sprawling gardens, where little candles float across the grass. France is nice, but he liked the villa better before it meant that he was on his own and Sirius, Remus and Peter were together in Wales.

Under his watchful gaze, a speck appears in the twilight sky. It could be just any bird. James fidgets in his seat and squints through his thick glasses, but it’s still too far off. He sighs, and then the house elf appears babbling away in French and holding several more trays of food than its spindly frame suggests is possible.

James, like any thirteen-year-old boy, is distracted. It probably would have been wiser, however, to watch the sky.

Midway through the appetiser Mrs. Potter gives a shriek as a large screech owl crashes into the table, scattering goblets of pumpkin juice and wine onto the carefully arranged slices of cheese. The owl then takes a flying leap at James, who shouts and ducks under the table. Following his descent, the owl begins to stalk him through a forest of chair legs. Mum and Dad have yet to move, still staring at the ruin of their supper.

“Well, take the letter James,” Dad directs, speaking to the table in general as he cannot currently pinpoint his son’s exact location underneath. James eyes the owl talons.

“Dunno Dad, maybe it’s for you,” James suggests weakly. He lunges, hoping for the advantage of surprise. What he gets is a resounding thump on his head from the bottom of the table – ooh, was that a goblet shattering? – and a measly handful of feathers.

James narrows his eyes in challenge. Soon there is a tangle of screech owl and scrawny teenager wreaking havoc under the table. Before his parents can cast a good spell to intervene, he emerges somewhat triumphant, well-pecked but with a letter in hand.

James peers at the envelope.

 

_Sprawling French Villa_

_Wherever the Potters Vacation_

_Bloody France_

 

            “It’s from Sirius,” he tells his parents.

            “I hope the owl didn’t disembowel him for trying to post his letter,” says Mr. Potter faintly.

            “Nah,” says James, “It’s Sirius.” He tears open the envelope and pulls out the note.

 

_James,_

_A word of warning, mate – I’ve “borrowed” one of the Malfoys’ owls. If he tries to kill you (or worse, if he just sits there preening thinking he’s so bloody brilliant because he is a Malfoy owl) do not say you were never warned._

_All right, I can’t write for very long, but anyway I was looking through that spellbook – you know the one. I’m surprised we don’t dream about wandless spells at this point. Anyway, I found it, James. What you and me and Pete’ve been looking for. I couldn’t tell Peter; Remus was there and you were in bloody France. _

_Have to go now. Stupid Narcissa, having some stupid wedding at such an annoying moment. I would hex her, but you probably wouldn’t find my body until Christmas. The Family’s a little tense right now. Will you owl Andromeda flowers for me? I wanted to do it myself, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to get away with it for Ages._

_Sirius_

 

James stares at the letter with vague horror. He turns to his parents.

            “Alright,” he says, “I think Sirius may have cracked his head open and what was left of his brain leaked out.”

            They nod and smile and pick owl feathers out of their expensive robes. By now the Potters are quite aware that, no matter what James says about his friends, if they agree with anything negative he will fly into a rage, probably take off on his broomstick in broad daylight, and only speak to them in grunts for several days.

            James is oblivious to this. He strides down the wide steps into the garden, muttering to himself.

            “Sirius bloody Black, couldn’t you have been slightly more specific? Spend an entire paragraph on the bloody owl and another asking…oh. OH!”

            His parents watch with amusement as he runs off into the hedges. Then he remembers that his parents have hidden his wand again (he’ll try Mum’s jewellery case tonight) runs back, dashes up to his father, waves the parchment in his face, and all but shouts:

            “Dadpleasedon’treadthisokaybutcouldyoucastAperceriumthanks!”

            “Try again, Jamesie-er-James,” says his father, leaning affably back in his chair.

            It is a testament to James’s hurry that he doesn’t even mention the slip.

            “Could-you-cast- _Apecerium_ -thanks,” gasps James, holding the letter out at his father like it will burn him.

            “Alright, alright, keep your hair on,” says Mr. Potter. He digs his wand out of his robes, sighing.

            “Are you alright, dear?” asks Mum.

            “Fine, fine, just the arthritis.” He flexes his knotted fingers and grasps the old wand. Behind his glasses, his eyes narrow in concentration. “ _Apecerium_.”

            Almost before the spell washes over the parchment James is jumping back, yelping, “Don’t look!”

            Another head shake and shared smiles on the veranda. They’re glad, really, that he can be so dramatic over such little things as correspondence between friends. Especially the way politics are turning now.

 

* * *

 

            The gardens aren’t huge and most of them are laid out in the low-to-the-ground French style, with low-growing flowers and bunches of fat little baby statues which look disturbingly like younger, marble versions of Peeves. Around the edges, however, is a maze of tall hedges. James darts into them, glances around furtively, and unfolds the parchment. Sure enough, there’s a new word, scrawled in that gap between the last paragraph and Sirius’s signature.

            James peers at it, trying to remember anything in connection. He’s read it before, he’s sure. Squinting at the page, he tries to pronounce it.

            “Ani- urg - animagi.” He wrinkles his nose. “Now what, Sirius, is that?”

 

* * *

 

_Suffering Greatly in Formal Dress_

_Some Bint’s Wedding,_

_Probably a Pit of Slytherins, England_

_Sirius,_

_You nutter. How in Merlin’s name did you expect me to remember some discussion of some spell we had last Autumn? That was nearly a YEAR ago._

_I did remember, of course, because my intelligence simply cannot be surpassed and also I filed Apecerium away as a useful idea at the time. STILL. I had to ask Dad to do it, because they don’t want me getting in trouble with the French Ministry and keep finding places to put my wand for “safekeeping”._

_Now, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been trying to find some sort of spell or cure for Remus, right? Pete wrote something that gave me this idea. Remember the strengthening potion we mixed with that other thing that gave us all arms muscled like mountain trolls? Peter couldn’t shut up about how he wished we could keep that one around for use on US, totally ignoring how much of a tit he looked with great bloody troll arms. Dunno how serious he really was, but what if we’ve been looking in the wrong place? Maybe we should use the Animagus transformation on ourselves, instead of trying to turn R into a fluffy, cuter version of his little problem. No, don’t look at me like that, THINK about it. It’s neat, isn’t it? Remember what you said at breakfast once (of course you don’t haha how does that feel) – Werewolves only try to kill humans. Maybe if we’re there as like, lions or something we can help him. Keep him from tearing himself up, like._

_Don’t worry, we’ll be back at Hogwarts soon and you can take out all your frustration at pureblood pisspots on Snape. How does that sound?_

_James_

_P.S. YOU ARSE that owl nearly pecked off some Very Important Body Parts and wouldn’t leave until Mum had given him some caviar and what I suspect was very expensive shark fin soup. At least the Black owls are just moody and regal and likely to try to stab in the back. Not on, mate._

_P.P.S. Think of it this way: at least it’s Bellatrix’s special day. Yet. Merlin, that would/will be horrific._

 

* * *

 

            Hogsmeade is decked in autumn colours, and every little cottage’s stoop is lined with fat orange pumpkins and strangely contorted squashes which Sirius thinks look unfortunately like lepers, and their tidy front gardens have a frothy layer of fallen leaves. In the distance the Forbidden Forest looks like fire of orange and yellow has swept over the mountains, right up to the foot of the castle grounds.

            It is quite strange for all of them to be wandering these little cobblestone streets with every right to be here, according to those silly things they call rules. Well, almost according to the rules. Where would the fun be that way? However would they enjoy the stiff fall breeze, the scent of butterbeer on the wind, the Slytherins whose entire underwear drawers are currently run of the maypole in the main square? No, Sirius thinks not.

            Anyway, no one will notice that Mrs. Lupin’s signature on Remus’s Hogsmeade permission slip is in any way different than it should be. Sirius is very good at his forgery. The woman’s just being overprotective, anyway. Remus can take care of himself better than all of them put together when he’s not busy being righteous and moral.

            The first Quidditch game of the year is over, with a resounding Gryffindor victory over Ravenclaw, and all four of them – even Remus with his pathological hatred of anything shaped like a broomstick – have decided to celebrate. So far they’ve hit every store on the high street, even Honeydukes which they know like the backs of their hands. Now they’re wandering aimless, meandering further up the hill and closer to the Shack.

            Up a head is a gaggle of black and yellow, Hufflepuffs gathered around an older wizard.

            “I heard it’s haunted,” whispers a third year Sirius hasn’t bothered to get to know.

            “Bet it’s where the Hogwarts ghosts send all the evil spirits they don’t want in the school.”

            And older boy, maybe in sixth year, pushes to the front. Sirius recognizes him only because he’s keeper for the Hufflepuff team; he’s handsome, but an awful player. Diggory.

            “What we want to know,” Diggory says loudly, “is how long it’s been haunted. Maybe then we can find out what’s in there.”

            When Remus stiffens, he doesn’t do it in his back or his face. Just his hands. He moves them like his joints are frozen in the nippy fall air. James picks up the pace a little.

            The Hogsmeade wizard stares over the young faces of his little audience. They hold their collective breaths.

“Oh, it’s been haunted for years now,” intones the wizard, “I always knew; I just didn’t say nothin’. And I know what’s living in there, too.” He pauses to readjust a terribly ratty red scarf around his neck. The four of them have stopped dead on the street. They’ve heard a lot of versions of this story, none touching on the truth. Still, they have to listen.

“There was this poor Italian tourist who came by sightseeing and stopped by the Hogs Head. They say he insulted a Banshee, and it’s her and her fourteen sisters in there, torturing his poor ghost. That’s why if you listen close those screams are…in Italian.”

            There are oohs and ahhs and shudders. Remus’s hands flex again, relaxing now.

            “Did anyone have money on Banshees?” whispers Peter. James kicks him, laughing. Remus glares. Sirius, however, frowns and holds out a hand. He’s sure he placed a bet on Banshee theories. Also Veelas. Why not?

            “Hey, you don’ believe me?” the wizard asks, suddenly glaring their direction.

            “Erm,” says Remus. “Didn’t hear the story, sorry.”

            “Have a pleasant day,” squeaks James.

            Peter, James, Sirius, and Remus hurry down the street, absolutely sure they’re going to break into gales of laughter before they can turn the corner up ahead. Once tucked into an alleyway between a butcher’s and a market stall selling pumpkins twice the size of Peter, they all turn to each other, making gestures of “WHAT?!”, “DID HE REALLY?” and “BRILLIANT, BANSHEES!” (all very complicated hand signs that only Sirius and James seem to really understand). Quickly they tumble further down the snickelway, tripping over robe hems and cobblestones, but now it’s just to get far away enough from the crowded street to hide their laughter. They forget in moments that any of them even thought to be afraid that the old wizard would gaze out at those students and say, “It’s a werewolf and it came here two years ago in September and his name rhymes with Shremus Shoopin.”

            They’d like to forget that they fear that every time.

            Finally they collapse outside a shop, still spurting out cryptic phrases at each other and laughing even more. The autumn air has put colour in even Sirius’s pallid cheeks, and they are all very certain that they are glorious and invincible. Remus laughs the loudest.

            “Alright lads, this has been fun,” Sirius announces after a bit, “but I need to hit the flower shop.”

            “Oh Merlin, no!” moans Peter. A few passing Gryffindor girls giggle and he shoots them a quick, boy-next-door grin.

            “Sirius,” says James, “I would follow you into a dragon’s den. I would help you try to seduce a Veela. I will not accompany you into – he squints across the street at the peppy yellow sign – Baba Yaga’s Bouquets And General Witch-Wooing Needs.”

            “I’ll go,” says Remus simply, as if he’s announcing that he’d like another sausage or he needs to piss. James and Peter stare, and Remus flushes.

            “Lay off, it’s me Mam’s birthday in a couple days. I haven’t got any other ideas, now have I?” His chin comes up and his amber eyes flash a little like they do when he’s defying things, usually expectations about himself. It’s easily Sirius’s favourite expression on him; he can always appreciate a rebel.

            Remus sighs and studies the sign apprehensively.

            “I wonder if Baba Yaga has any daffodils?”

            But James and Peter have already escaped, the traitorous sods, and Sirius decides not to remind him that this is a Wizarding shop, and very unlikely to have something as normal as a daffodil. Remus gives him a little, resigned smile and they trot across the street.

            Baba Yaga’s Bouquets and General Witch-Wooing Needs is crowded with flowers Remus has never seen before: odd strains of pitcher plants which play themselves like various brass instruments, including one giant one which sounds just like a tuba, giant roses as big as two of his heads, nasty-looking purple blossoms which trail dusty pollen that makes Remus woozy if he gets too close, a whole back corner that hisses, and another that looks viciously carnivorous.

            The smell in the shop is made up of a war between spicy and sickly sweet, each in such abundance that Remus has already got a headache. He’s about to give up and buy Mam some silly trinket or just transfigure her a teacup when Sirius marches right up to an incredibly old, terrifying looking witch behind the counter and begins to chat.

            “Hello there, lovely lady,” he says. Remus is fairly certain this lady has miniature human skulls strung in a necklace over her shawls.

            “Hello, Mr. Black,” she spits back, glaring.

            “Er, I prefer Sirius. You know, tends to keep things friendlier.”

            Baba Yaga – Remus assumes – grunts. Her beady eyes drift over Sirius’s shoulder and stare at him. Remus tries to dull the instinct to run.

            “Anyway, Madam Yaga,” Sirius continues, oblivious as usual, “I’m looking for the most gaudy, most overdone, most horrific bouquet you have. Preferably one which is outrageously expensive.”

            She peers up at him with little beetle-black eyes. Remus shivers. Baba notices and treats him to a wide, awful, gap-toothed grin. Then she turns back to Sirius.

            “I’m afraid, Mr. Sirius Black, that we do not carry any ‘horrific’ arrangements,” she sniffs.

            Remus tries to judge whether he’s standing close enough to Sirius to drag him out onto the street if the lovely lady decides to go for the jugular. It’s probably a lost cause.

            “Who are you even buying for?” he mutters in Sirius’s ear. This has been nagging him since they were outside. Sirius is rummaging in his robes. He plops a gold galleon down on the table. Baba Yaga’s black eyes widen a little. They make Remus think horribly of endless winters.

            “My favourite cousin,” he says. “Andromeda; you know. Our most infamous rebel.” His long fingers twist the Black family ring.

            Remus doesn’t say anything. He wants to comfort Sirius, ask him if he’s jealous; ask him why he hasn’t done it himself. But he doesn’t say a word. How does one even try to breach a subject like that in the bloody flower shop?

            Madam Yaga is watching them shrewdly. Sirius glares right back and slaps down another galleon. Remus tries very hard not to think about how much money that is. Transferred into Muggle pounds, he could probably buy Mam that second-hand car she’s been wanting.

            Baba Yaga scoops them up quickly and bites each coin to test it. Satisfied, she shuffles off into the tangles of flowers, muttering to herself.

            “Er, Madam Yaga?” Remus pipes up. “Any chance you have anything resembling daffodils?”

            She turns slowly and gives him the evil eye. Remus, in possession of no bribe money, doesn’t push it any further. He starts thinking of counter-jinxes instead; it seems more immediately practical.

            “Actually,” says Sirius, lowering his voice and pulling Remus away from the counter, where Baba Yaga is forcefully stuffing a bunch of horrifically fuchsia diamond encrusted flowers into a tiny vase, “There’s something we’ve all been meaning to ask you.”

            Remus’s stomach does an awful nosedive, even though they already know. It’s just a gut response. He holds up his hands.

            “No more Dark Creatures, furry problems, or violent secrets, I solemnly swear,” he promises in a whisper, hoping to head off the discussion, whatever the discussion may be.

            “No need to be touchy, it’s just a bit of Charms work. James came across it when we were researching – well, something – and we thought it would be neat, you know?”

            Remus tugs at the cuffs of his robes. Sirius bows to Baba Yaga and she sees them out of the shop, into the chilly sunlight.

            “I threw in some of the singing daisies for free,” she croaks with a horrible grin, “because you’ve been such a good customer.”

            “You’ve been wonderful to deal with,” Sirius says breezily, pressing a sickle into her palm. It occurs to Remus that Sirius could plausibly be bribing her not to sell their organs for potions ingredients. She laughs hoarsely and slams the door.

            “What charm is it, then?” asks Remus. He’s fairly confident in his charms work, if he does say so himself.

            “The Patronus,” says Sirius. Mistaking Remus’s gaping mouth he explains, “It’s the Dementor repulsion Charm, but the book mentions that it can be used for a lot of other things, some of which didn’t make much sense, but—“

            “I know what it is, Sirius,” gasps Remus as they wave to Peter and James, sitting with their ice creams across the square. People are giving Sirius and Remus odd looks and a wide birth. The daisies have commenced singing in very high pitched, very cockney voices. Remus distinctly recognizes the strains of Dad’s favourite pub song, the one Mam smacks him for humming. He hopes this cousin Andromeda has a sense of humour.

            “Then what’s the problem? Why are you looking at me like that?” asks Sirius in that infuriating way of his. He seems not to notice the daisies’ increasingly dirty limericks, or the looks they’re getting.

            “No problem,” Remus bluffs, trying to remember just how complex of a spell the Patronus is. “I just need to do a bit of research, is all.”

            Meaning, Remus thinks as he scans the rest of the square, he needs to talk to Lily Evans.

 

* * *

 

            As it turns out, it’s rather difficult to get a word in with Lily. The others are showing an odd, cautious restraint when it comes to pestering Remus about Patronuses, so he almost wonders if it’s worth it to ask her. Unfortunately, the idea of Patronus has inflamed his academic curiosity, and he’d really like to know what Lily, best in their year at Charms, can tell him about it.

            The Halloween Feast proves to be a bit of a setback, thanks to prank with the charmed treacle, and how were they supposed to know that Evans would eat anything off of the Slytherin table when she’s over there chatting with Snape? Mind, Remus feels pretty guilty about that one. He’ll insist they prank the whole school next time, but it is fun to see Rosier floating around like a big party balloon. Unfortunately, Lily is also floating around the ceiling with the Slytherins, bumping around in the sea of jack-o-lanterns.

“He really does a lovely job accentuating the Halloween decorations, doesn’t he?” muses Sirius, pointing out Snape, who resembles a giant obese bat as he bobs through the air, spitting with rage. Remus knows by now that Sirius has no conscience nagging him, especially when it comes to messing with people like his family (or possibly in his family, as no one seems to be far from it). Remus envies this a little bit.

            However, the mess with the treacle leaves Evans in the Hospital Wing overnight, and she’s released with more hatred of the four of them (hopefully sans Remus) than ever before. It doesn’t help that James has begun to try to chat to her about Quidditch in the halls between classes, an activity that leaves her visibly grinding her teeth and more surrounded by an indignant female flock than ever.

            “Trust me, Remus,” says James to him after yet another failed attempt, “they travel in packs. There’s no hope.”

            Remus wisely declines to comment on that.

            When Remus finally catches her it’s in Care of Magical Creatures, which the other three took as a sort of private joke, and Remus took because he’s genuinely interested.

            “We shall learn to care for ickle Remus,” Sirius had explained, bouncing on the bench in the Great Hall the first breakfast when schedules were handed out. Remus whapped him over the head with James’s _Prophet,_ stole his bacon, and quietly charmed his underwear silver and green. He would only admit under extreme duress that he was, in some strange way, pleased. Maybe it was just good to joke about it after so long; after all the years with the ridiculous Werewolf Not around his neck.

            Lily Evans is staring at him like he’s gone soft in the head. He realises he greeted her with, “Good morning, Lily, there’s a spell I wanted to discuss with you” about a minute ago.

            “Pardon me,” he stammers. “I must not have had enough coffee this morning.” As if the stupid Werewolf metabolism allows coffee to do any good, the damn traitor. “Anyway,” trying to shut his brain up, really trying, “I wanted to ask you about a spell.”

            “Is it for a prank?” she asks flatly, jotting down notes on dragon taming. They’re all seated in little rows in the grass, observing the behaviour of some caged pixies and listening to Professor Kettleburn ramble on one of his dragon tangents.

            “Not any prank that I know of,” says Remus with a smile. Those pixies bring back fond memories of last year. He thinks he saw one the other day, flitting down the corridor by the kitchens with Peeves in hot pursuit. It’ll be decades before the staff can find them all.

            “Remus, you’re zoning out again,” snaps Lily.

            “Right, sorry.” He gives her what he hopes is a disarming smile. It comes out wobbly. “The Patronus Charm. What do you know about it?”

            “Ooh,” says Lily, “and here I thought you were going to ask me about some stupid flashy Transfiguration technique. I’ve wanted to try the Patronus charm for ages, but….” she chews her lip, green eyes thoughtful. “We’re a bit too young to manage it, don’t you think?”

            “Not at all,” says Remus cheekily. She gives him a withering look.

            “Don’t act like you do around them. I’ll have to hex you.”

            He almost laughs. Then she opens her mouth and starts explaining and he’s paying rapt attention, ignoring all gestures and looks sent his way by his friends. James is especially dramatic today.

            Once Lily finishes summing up the complexities of the spell – the concept of happy thoughts, the jabbing motion of the wand, the individual animals, the many uses she’s thought of but hasn’t seen in any books – she frowns and peers over his shoulder.

            “What _is_ the matter with Potter these days?” Lily demands. At her gaze, James gives a little nonchalant wave and runs a hand through his hair.

“Er, I suppose he fancies you,” says Remus. It sounds fairly logical.

            “He _fancies_ me?” Evans repeats, torn between disbelief and disgust. Remus starts to realize what he has just said.

            “Ah,” says James, who has apparently been listening, the tosser. “That’s it, I must fancy you. I think. Care for a date, Evans?”

            Remus groans and rubs his forehead. Then he catches Sirius’s stricken look and grins.

 

* * *

 

            There’s no chance to try the Patronus Charm before the next full moon. Sirius, James, and Peter see Remus off to the hospital wing, shrugging on the Invisibility Cloak when they begin to get close. They’ve been exceptionally careful around Madam Pomfrey this year, but she still gives Remus a searching look whenever he walks in, as if she thinks he’s hidden them under his cloak. He makes them turn back at the door though, every month.

            While Pomfrey steps into her office to don a heavy cloak against the late autumn chill, Remus stares at the double tapestry over the hidden door to his sealed off little room. He wonders if there has ever been another werewolf at this school, or if there will ever be another one. The little room is old. It was there before he came, unlike the Whomping Willow.

            “Let’s go, Mr. Lupin,” says Madam Pomfrey. He swallows down moon nausea and ignores that bone-deep ache.

            Just get through the night, and then he can see his friends again.

            They stride through the frostbitten grass, Remus struggling to keep up even though he’s recently had a growth spurt and his legs are a bit longer. He waits out the job of getting through the Willow, still painstaking even if Madam Pomfrey is rather good at wielding long sticks after three years of this. Remus would find this amusing in almost any other situation but this one. The Willow seems to have an understandably vile dislike for Remus, and takes a swing at him whenever it can. Then Pomfrey touches the knot, the failsafe, and it goes silent and still.

            There the long, familiar walk underground.

            He is alone, dodging moonbeams.

            Dark black-red pain. White pain. There’s no escaping the moon. Sometimes, on the nights when the moon barely skips along the horizon, it slides behind a mountain and there is the added agony of transforming half back, stuck in some horrible middle place, only for the werewolf to wrench its form back over him again.

            Back in the dormitory, though he doesn’t know it, three boys are wide awake. They stare out of a tower window, even though Hogsmeade is nothing but a dull glow on the horizon, and maybe even that is their imagination. Everything is still and calm, but it feels like a horrible illusion.

            “We need to move faster,” says Sirius, glaring out over the grounds. His fingers drum on the windowsill and twist at his ring.

            “You’re going to have to accept that becoming Animagi will take a very long time,” says James, eyes steady behind his glasses.

            “And we don’t know if we even can,” adds Peter, shivering as another gust blows through the window. He casts another heating charm, but it doesn’t seem to do much.

            “I wasn’t saying that,” says James, steel in his voice. “We will do it. There’s no way we won’t.”

            Sirius nods stiffly and Peter looks cowed. James throws him a smile and casts a much better heating charm as a sort of apology.

            “No time to lose then,” says James, rubbing his hands together. “We probably won’t get it right, but I don’t feel like sleeping yet.”

            Sirius doesn’t feel like sleeping again, ever. He doesn’t know if he can be any more grateful for James, who shoots him a quick grin.

            “Alright mates,” he says, “we don’t have to create the best Patronus in the world. We just need to create one with some sort of form to it. It’ll be an animal.” He looks around at their faces. “Probably the same animal we’ll become as animagi. That animal will be the focus point for the transformation.”

            “Er, what happens if one of us is…an ant, or a dolphin or something?”

            “We work around it, Pete.”

            Peter gives them one of those cheerful grins. “I’ll just do my best then, and you figure out how you’re going to fit an elephant in the shack.”

            Even Sirius laughs a little.

            As James predicted, they conjure absolutely nothing that night. None of the silvery clouds Remus predicted as starting attempts, no magnificent animals. But it’s such a relief to be finally _doing_ something that they hardly care. When dawn inches its way into the frosty, pale and weak, Sirius rouses the other two and they duck under the cloak and creep up to the hospital wing to await behind the tapestry for Remus’s return.


	8. In which there is a mirror, a hex, a breakthrough, and some public shouting

Remus slips into his first fully sane wakefulness around noon. He blinks. His own pale face is looking down on him. Rather startled and beginning to worry, Remus checks that he can feel his body.

            Yes, it’s still there and still excruciating. He hopes he’s not dead and having and out of the body experience. Just as his heart begins to thud in earnest, his mind steadies itself a little, and Remus makes out the edges of an oval mirror attached to the canopy of the hospital bed.

            Ah, he thinks.

            Madam Pomfrey appears through the tapestry door and sees that he’s awake, as well as where his gaze is fixed. She leans over him and glances up at the mirror, then fixes her eyes on his. It’s a rare day that Remus wishes he were actually less coherent, but he’d give a lot to miss this impending interrogation.

            “Do you happen to have any idea where that mirror came from, Mr. Lupin?” asks Madam Pomfrey, staring at it shrewdly. Remus studies the mirror. Its frame is pure silver, and there are sections that seem like they used to hold cut gems. Near the bottom the metal looks like it’s been heated and warped, probably to blur out something that still suspiciously resembles the Black family crest. Apparently Sirius has found a “good” use for his old bedroom decorations.

            “No idea, Madam Pomfrey,” says Remus with a sickly grin. He is going to _pound_ Sirius just as soon as he can lift his own head off the pillows. “Does this bed have a history of spawning mirrors?”

            From the look she gives him, it probably does not.

            Eventually, after much fussing, Pomfrey leaves to attend to her other patients and the snuffling, sneezing line at the door in need of the dreaded Pepper-Up Potion.

            “I really should punch you in the face for being so reckless,” says Remus to the room at large. Three boys appear by the window, looking sheepish.

            “I didn’t think she’d notice,” says James apologetically, even though they all know it was Sirius who had the idea and who donated the mirror. Sirius, who knows what it means to fear an appearance, to fear that a monster in the blood is written all over your face.

            “I _should_ punch you,” Remus amends, “but I rather appreciate the sentiment.”

            Because all he can see in the glass is a boy, battered and bruised but human, with one pair of eyelids and nothing but a bit of snaggletooth where he half expects fangs to be.

            “Now, get out of here and go enjoy your lunch,” Remus orders, faking energy he definitely doesn’t have. “You needn’t take time out of meals, or your sleep for that matter, unless I hallucinated your visit this morning, which is very possible. All I do is lay about. It’s horrifically boring, I expect.”

            “And now you’ll just do schoolwork all afternoon,” James sighs, but shoots him a quirky grin.

            “Yet we can’t bring ourselves to abandon you to the clutches of Madam Pomfrey,” Sirius murmurs, walking over to the bed and peering up at the mirror. “Well, if you really don’t mind it….” He waves his wand and whispers a few words. “I’ve put a better sticking charm on it. Didn’t want to go through all the work of undoing it if you were going to,” he smirks, “punch me in the face.”

            “I really will someday,” Remus grins, “I really will.”

 

* * *

 

            James is all for going over to Machynlleth for the Christmas hols, which is the only reasonably sized town Remus can name which is anywhere near his cottage. He’s not sure why he bothered, as none of them can pronounce it anyway. James wanted to know because he’s dead set on trying out the ever so famous Welsh cliff diving for himself.

            “It’s December, James,” Remus points out weakly. He gestures to the ceiling of the Great Hall, which is happily dumping down enchanted snow, all of it vanishing before reaching the four tables. This seems to mean nothing to James, or the rest of them. He tries again. “It will be bloody freezing and pouring rain all day every day.”

            “No problem there, Remus, you’ve got a house, right? I’d like to see where you live as I was _stranded_ in _France_ when you all went romping in Lupin territory.”

            Remus sighs and goes for the embarrassing truth. He can do nothing but humiliate himself, it seems.

            “Mam will never let you all come.”

            “But she did last time, didn’t she?” asks Peter.

            “What about your Dad?” suggests James, waving a sausage. Remus is already shaking his head.

            “Dad agreed while Mam was visiting a friend. He won’t go out on a limb again. Mostly we just try to keep her happy.” His mouth twists a little and he bites into a potato with a little more force than necessary.

            “Won’t you try?” Sirius says, speaking for the first time. His voice is low and annoyed.

            “I would if I thought it would do any good,” says Remus grimly, annoyed that Sirius is pushing him about this and not trying to understand. He lowers his voice and pulls his trump card. “There are two fulls over the holidays. Mam knows I know that. What do you think she’ll think if I ask her? She finds out you know….” he gives his fork a little wave at them.

            “And you’re on the first train to Siberia,” finishes Sirius.

            “So glad you understand,” says Remus dryly, digging into his steak.

            “Can’t blame us for trying,” says James with a shrug. “Pete, pass us the pudding before you eat it all.”

            Peter relinquishes his pudding monopoly with rather poor grace.

            “We’re still on for this evening, lads?” asks James, mouth full. Remus winces, but answers.

            “As far as I know. The usual place?” Remus is kind of hoping it isn’t.

            “Unless you’ve found someplace better,” says Peter cheerfully.

            James slides the bench back and stands. “Myrtle my dear!” he croons.

            “We’re on our way!” Sirius finishes in an awful falsetto.

            The other Gryffindors barely spare them a glance. They’re almost used to it at this point.

            “I’m sure she misses us,” Sirius is saying as they make their way up the wide staircase. Remus scowls. Myrtle has taken to flirting with his friends at every opportunity, especially Sirius. With all the practice their putting into these Patronuses, that’s becoming quite a few chances.

They’re approaching the top of the stairs, just beyond the eyes of the teachers at the staff table, when someone slams a shoulder into James.

            James has his wand out in a split second, but Snape doesn’t even have to draw his – all James can do is deflect whatever nasty hex was already sent his way.

            “What do you think you’re doing, Snivillus?” demands Sirius, wand out as well. Peter fumbles nervously with his pocket. Snape gazes down his hooked nose at him.

            “Do you need help getting your wand out, you fat lump?” he hisses.

            James shouts, “shut your mouth!” and strikes him with a spell right in the face, which swells and turns a horrendous shade of purple. Through puffy lips Snape begins to hiss another spell just as Sirius sends off one of his own. Remus jumps between them, deflects both – which is bloody difficult, neither of them should be so good at nasty spells as third years – and levels his wand on Snape, just centimetres from his greasy nose. It’s quiet, except for the five of them panting a little.

            “Now,” says Remus slowly, coldly, from the middle of it all, “I was planning to put his face back. But that’s Pete’s call.” He turns to Snape. “If he’d rather you keep it, you keep it, and with a little extra something from me. What’s the word, Peter?”

            “Hex him,” snap Sirius and James together. Remus tries to glare at them without taking his eyes off Snape. He really hopes the boy hasn’t taught himself anything much wandless or wordless, or Remus is probably in for a lot of pain.

            “F-fix him,” stammers Peter, not looking at Snape. “The detentions aren’t worth it, anyway.”

            Remus just nods and body-binds Snape, then flicks his wand over the face for the countercharm, and follows the other three down the corridor. He unfreezes Snape when he thinks they’re far enough away, and they all duck into the nearest hidden passage to listen to him thunder by, swearing at them

Remus rather expected Sirius to be angry with him for ruining the duel, but strangely Sirius doesn’t seem to be angry at all. He just stares at Remus quietly until finally Remus musters up the courage to quirk a questioning eyebrow in his direction.

“You did—It was kind of impressive, I suppose,” Sirius grumbles. “With Snape. And you blocking both of us. I’m sorry you got in the way of my spell. Good job deflecting it; I dunno if I could have.” A sudden grin lights up his face. “You looked bloody murderous.”

Remus shudders. “Ugh, I do _not_ take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” says James. “It’s just an old Black family courting ritual.” And Sirius scowls and goes a bit red around the cheekbones and cuffs him and James laughs and everything kind of swings back to equilibrium.

They’re quiet all the way to Myrtle’s bathroom, even when Professor Slughorn stops them on the second floor to tell them off for “that little scrap you had with Mr. Snape”. They’re lucky Snape ran into Slughorn; McGonagall would have sent them to detention for ages. As it is, Slughorn finishes up his lecture, suggests Remus go back to his tutor from last year if he wants to pass the upcoming potions project (as it was Snape who was his tutor way back at the beginning of second year, Remus doubts this is going to happen), and docks a few points before letting them go on their merry way.

The four of them trudge into Myrtle’s bathroom with noticeably lower spirits than normal.

“Bloody charm,” mutters Peter. “I wish it were fed on overwork and frustration. We’d have it done in a minute.”

James laughs a little. Myrtle pops out of her toilet to greet them. She’s a little perkier than normal (a _little_ should be stressed) now that Remus has introduced his friends to his favourite hiding spot. He doesn’t use it before the moon anymore now that they know, and he can sit around the dorm feeling ill, instead of sneaking off to toss his cookies with Myrtle. Secretly, he chose it above some more comfortable practice rooms because he didn’t want her feel abandoned. Even if her sinks do hiss occasionally and the whole floor’s flooded more than half the time.

“Hey Myrtle,” greets James. “Having a good day?”

She sniffs and eyes him lasciviously. James hides his shudder well.

“Let’s get to it,” snaps Sirius. He’s all vibrating, tense energy wrapped in dark hair and pale hands. Remus finds himself wondering what in Merlin’s name someone like Sirius Black thinks of when he tries to summon a patronus. As they all begin to practice, throwing off “Expecto Patronum!”s and the odd spell they’re learning in other classes, the thought just won’t go away. He can hardly concentrate, just keeps glancing at Sirius’s determined expression, and wondering why he can’t guess. Remus is usually pretty good at understanding what people are thinking. He knows how minds work.

Except for Sirius Black’s mind, of course.

This preoccupation will never do. Remus breathes. He thinks; castes his mind about. He’s tried the grand things, like coming to Hogwarts, like the birthday party they threw for him last year; even James winning Quidditch games. Even his Mam, and hell, his marks on exams.

None of that worked, no matter how happy a memory they were. So Remus turns now to the little things. They glitter so faintly, like stars when the moon is out, but they are everywhere. So why not try, right? Remus closes his eyes and thinks of the echoes Hogwarts makes on snowy days, white breaths in front of four boys’ faces, chocolate, the sun shattering on the Irish sea like broken glass, the Not slipping off his neck, Butterbeer with his friends, the reek of Mam’s cigarettes, Sirius sitting by the window to watch the fireflies, the soft sound of Peter’s slashing spells as he whittles, more chocolate, more Sirius by the window and James slapping him on the back and this strange thing which there is no word for except _not being alone_ and the word lampyris slipping London-posh from a boy’s lips.

“Expecto Patronum,” he yells, but it is not enough, not yet. There is a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and he wipes it away, watching the formless silver cloud dissipate. He thinks through them all again, every touch and taste and sight, and then he thinks of those quick bright things: stars and fireflies and lights waiting up for you in the night.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Remus shouts, head thrown back, and it shoots out of his wand fully formed, silvery and huge, a quick bright thing in its own right.

He lowers his wand, panting. The bathroom is suddenly silent except for the insistent dripping of the taps. All four of them track the patronus’ progress around the walls with their eyes. It’s something wolfish; of course it is.

Somehow Remus finds he doesn’t mind. Suddenly weak he sits down on his haunches, watching the wolf continue on its gallop. He lets out a soft little laugh of triumph.

Sirius, James and Peter draw close around him, squeezing his shoulder or ruffling his hair while he gasps for breath and they all stare at the racing animal.

“So,” says Remus, “out of academic curiosity, want to see if we can identify whether it has the five signs of a werewolf?”

The funny thing is, in all Remus Lupin’s years of summoning a patronus, he will never be able to decide which form his takes.

 

* * *

           

The Christmas question still remains as holidays draw closer. It’s just days until they all go home, and Sirius is seriously considering tracking down McGonagall to sign up to stay at Hogwarts. He did his duty last summer, went to the damn wedding at Malfoy Manor and dealt with the Giant Andromeda Induced Catastrophe. Now his parents are afraid that if they give him too many restrictions he’ll go the way of his cousin. So long as they keep up this strategy of taming Sirius he’s going to make the most of the freedom. It won’t last.

In a rather foul mood Sirius shovels down some kippers, burns a letter from his Mother in a candle flame, and opens his copy of the Daily Prophet. There’s a bit of political stuff he doesn’t want to think about right now, Quidditch scores which fail to really capture his attention, gossip columns he wouldn’t be caught dead reading, and some advertisements. Surprisingly, it’s the last that catches his eye.

 

 

 

Sirius tears off the edge of newspaper with the travel advert on it and jumps up, waving it in the air.

“Glorious Devon!” he shouts. “JAMES IS FROM DEVON, RIGHT?”

Remus doesn’t even look up from his jam and chocolate-spread sandwich.

“Yes Mr. Black. He is from Devon,” he says, concentrating hard on spreading the corners right. Too little or too much chocolate on the corners and the sandwich is ruined.

“I’m from Devon too, you know,” announces James Potter, slumping down on the bench and scooping up some eggs. “Who’re you talking about?”

“You,” says Pete.

“DEVON!” shouts Sirius.

“Madness,” moans Remus, letting his head fall to the table.

“Yes,” agrees James, “When I am in Devonshire there is much madness. But what is all this uproar over the great ancestral home of the Potters and many, many cows?”

Sirius stops shouting and swallows. It’s one thing to watch James pester Remus for a visit to Wales, and a whole other to ask to stay with James’s family for the whole of Christmas, which is apparently a very “family oriented” holiday (apparently some people like spending time with their family. They’ve clearly never faced the horrifying fact that they are closely related to Bellatrix Black). He’s never even met the Potters, and he’s finally stopped assuming that everyone will bow down to him because of his blood.

It’s actually that thought that spurs him on, because there’s no way he’s going home to watch his entire family do the same.

“I was thinking I could come and stay in Devonshire for the Christmas holidays,” Sirius says to James with a blinding smile.

“Oh, sure. Brilliant!” says James. “I’ll just let my Mum know. She says any of you lot are invited, any time.”

Sirius sits back, quite pleased at his luck. Remus sees right through it and shakes his head at him.

“You are _insane_ ,” he mouths, but somehow when Remus says it, it sounds like a compliment.

 

* * *

           

James creates a Patronus in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom literally the first day they get back to school, flush with stories of devilry in Devon, or some such nonsense. He crows his victory for over a week afterwards.

            “Did you see the _antlers_ on that thing?” he whispers to Peter in Potions. Slughorn is busy singing praises to Lily Evans, whose Alihotsy Draught is “supremely superb, Miss Evans, just lovely!”.

            “They’re brilliant, James,” Peter whispers back. Sirius snorts, but Remus suspects this is partially because he hasn’t got a Patronus of his own yet. He and James can be rather competitive, but it isn’t usually an issue.

            “A stag,” Sirius hisses in half-hearted contempt. “I’ll bet your wolf _eats_ it.”

            “Shh, not so loud!” mutters Remus. That’s just what he needs, Sirius Black nearly outing him to the whole Potions class. They’ve got it with the Ravenclaws, who are a pretty sharp bunch, and according to stereotype, quite a bit less likely than a Hufflepuff to feel sympathy.

            Because he can’t help himself, Remus follows up his retort.

            “Anyway Sirius, I’m not even sure Patronuses _can_ ingest each other.”

            Sirius drums his fingers on Remus’s arm because, well, he has no sense of personal space whatsoever, and appears to think that over. Remus doesn’t bother to take his arm away. He’s just…used to it. It’s familiar and pleasant. There’s a pale old scar that runs across Sirius’s palm that Remus can’t remember him getting, but it’s been there for ages and is rather nice as well. Better than the family ring on the other hand, anyway.

            Humming tunelessly, Remus goes back to their cauldron, which is – he checks again and groans – foaming an awful, acidic yellow, with strange chunks floating around.

            “Say, what’s that smell?” asks Sirius.

            “Professor Slughorn!” Remus’s hand shoots up. “I think we have some trouble over here. Sorry.” He’s not sure if he’s apologizing to Sirius for destroying another potion, or to Lily and Slughorn for interrupting and generally being a bad student. Lily, at least, shoots him an unoffended smile. She looks a bit relieved to be rid of Slughorn’s overzealous praise.

            But when Lily catches up to him in the hallway after class, Remus wonders if maybe he was wrong and she is offended, or worse: she’s taking pity on him and offering help as a tutor.

            “Remus,” she says, catching up, “have you got a minute?”

            He nods politely. No need to throw away manners, no matter what she wants to say. Behind him, his friends are gaping.

            “Since when are they friends?” demands Peter, loud enough that half the dungeons hear him. More than a few people leave snickering.

            “Shut up, Pete,” mutters James, but he’s craning his neck, trying to see them. Sirius, the tallest of all of them, stares sullenly on.

            Lily, for once, doesn’t try to complain about them to his face. Remus almost never goes along with it, unless they’ve done something particularly stupid, like that rampage on Valentines last year.

            “I’ve been wondering,” she whispers, “how far you four have got on that Patronus charm.”

            “How do you know we’ve been working on it?” asks Remus. “It could’ve been a passing fancy.”

            “Though that’s likely with those idiots – I mean, sorry, they _are_ your friends – I doubt any of you could leave something so complex and mildly dangerous alone.”

            He gives her a crooked little smile. “I can’t do much with it, but James has—”

            Lily rolls her eyes and cuts him off. “No, I don’t want to hear about everyone else’s progress. Instead you can tell me if Potter is actually stalking me.” Remus goes a little shifty around the eyes. “Or, alternatively, I’d like to see what _you_ can do. I haven’t managed more than a puff or two of silvery stuff.”

            “Sure,” Remus says finally, because honestly he likes Lily and he’s a great proponent of sharing wisdom. Maybe he can help her with it a little. “Is just after dinner okay?”

            She shakes her head and shifts from foot to foot. They’re all going to be dreadfully late (except maybe Remus, who took Arithmancy instead of Divination, and Sirius who is in Study of Ancient Runes because he knows them all already and is a lazy git).

            “No, no, I’ve got Slug Club.”

            Remus raises his eyebrows a little. He’ll ask her about that later, too. “Lunch then, the Muggle Studies corridor. Don’t want to try it in the common room; they can get a little wild.”

            “Sure,” says Lily, looking a little excited and flapping her hand goodbye, and hurries off towards the Divination classroom’s tower.

 

* * *

 

            Just as Remus is really getting into the Arithmancy lesson – and it is a fascinating subject, no one should say otherwise – a small piece of parchment wiggles under the door. Remus eyes it with suspicious, but resigned eyes. Fabian Prewett should never have given James that spell, and Remus should never have let James and Sirius spend long nights perfecting it. Notes creep up on him in the bloody _shower_ nowadays.

            It pauses at the door, curls up and seems to sniff the air. Crablike, the folded parchment scuttles sideways through the maze of desks, finally stopping by Remus’s chair. He gives it a little kick.

            “Not now!” he whispers. “Just come back later, you bit of paper.”

            It rears up and hisses at him, exposing an underbelly of scribbled black ink. Startled, Remus doesn’t manage to block its (admittedly covert) leap onto his desk. It slips itself comfortably in his open textbook, looking as if it’s quite content and planning to stay.

            Remus sighs in defeat. “Fine, do what you want.”

            The note unfolds itself with a cheeky bit of rustling. Flushing, Remus looks around to see if anyone’s noticed. Professor Vector and the few scattered students don’t even glance his way. He’s got a reputation for being a good student, the straight one of his friends. It’s great irony that he’s the Werewolf; the one they’d fear far more than James and Peter’s pranks or even a Black’s power, if only they knew.

            He shakes his head. Dark thoughts, the type that just run in circles, best to banish them for the next hour at least. He needs to make some sort of Patronus for Lily. Not a full one, of course, he shouldn’t let her see that. But he’d hate to let her down.

            Circular thoughts. His head aches. He reads the note.

 

_Do you fancy Evans?_

           

            “Subtle, Sirius,” he mutters.

 

_Because firstly, we all know James fancies her. Snatching her up is not on. We’re friends first._

 

            “I know, I know, bloody hell Sirius, this better not all be about Lily.”

 

_Secondly, it’s a bad idea._

 

            And that’s the end of it. Remus stops in the act of dipping his quill in the ink pot and his plan to write _No, quite definitely not._ He feels his face get hot and his hands, which have fisted without him ever telling them to do so, shake. It’s been a while since he was really, really angry at Sirius. He stares at the last line, feeling like even if he’s heard it a thousand times before and will hear it a thousand more, it will never cease to affect him like this.

            As soon as class is over he grabs his bag and hurries out of his seat, striding towards the path Sirius will be taking from Runes to lunch. He knows Lily will be waiting for him and that this will put him halfway across the castle from the Muggle Studies corridor and the nearby empty classroom he’d planned to use, but Remus cannot bring himself to turn around.

            He catches sight of the familiar sleek black hair immediately which just makes him more angry – why in Merlin’s name can he always, always pick out Sirius in a crowd, why do his eyes always stray to him – and storms right through the crowded, chilly corridor. All the way he keeps trying to tell himself to calm down, damn it, it’s not like he hasn’t heard those words before.

            “Sirius!” he shouts over the din of lunchtime excitement. Sirius’s face lights up for a second, and Remus almost stops. Almost forgets it and waves and says “I’ve got something on, I’ll meet you lot in Herbology!”

            But he doesn’t. The words come out all different. They come out loud, and angry, and in some too-fast, uncontrollable rush.

            “What do you mean, ‘it’s a bad idea’?” he shouts. People turn to look, because Remus Lupin never shouts, Remus Lupin is the good one, Remus Lupin is quiet and polite and chivalrous and lets his friends do anything they want. And he has never, ever yelled at them.

            “What?” asks Sirius, visibly taken aback. He makes such a bad Black, emotions all over his face.

            “The note,” Remus yells.

            “What are you on about?” Sirius shouts, once the shock has worn off, shoving his way through the crowded hall to Remus. He’s got quite the temper; maybe he’s a Black after all. Good thing he can escape that over the holidays, good thing he’s not the Werewolf, good thing he can go and, if he wants, fancy a girl without getting bloody warning notes from concerned friends and parents who think any relationship with said Werewolf is a _bad idea_.

            “Why does it always have to be a bad idea?” Remus hurls back, horrified at how little sense they’re making, at the fact that they’re fighting, publicly, at lunch hour in Hogwarts.

            Sirius looks like he’s swallowed a fire crab and is trying to find the best way to vomit it up again.

            “You do fancy her, then?”

            This is too much, really.

            “NO!” shouts Remus, then continues at a more moderate tone. “No, I bloody well do not, but I’m sick of people thinking there’s some huge problem if I did fancy someone.”

            Sirius looks bewildered again, then almost thoughtful. He glares around at the crowd.

            “You lot, clear out!” he bellows. Remus has no idea how he manages it, charisma or sheer force of personality or what, but the curious faces all shuffle off to their lunch. He’s grateful.

            “I didn’t mean it that way,” Sirius says stiffly. “You know we don’t care. I don’t care.”

            This is why Remus hates fighting. It’s almost always useless, not to mention it makes him dangerously low on self-control. He doesn’t want to be useless and he never wants to let loose, for what he thinks are quite obvious reasons, thank you very much.

            Sirius runs a hand through his hair, which is shaggy and black and definitely edging towards long now.

            “Wait. What did you mean?”

            It looks like Sirius flinches, but Remus can’t be sure.

            Sirius laughs nervously. “You know, I don’t really know. I wasn’t referencing your little problem obviously, but I…dunno. It’s just that, I don’t think you’d be happy with Evans. She…she doesn’t know and obviously there’s the fact that James would be messed up over it, even if the bint hates the poor bloke.”

            “We are _not_ ,” says Remus firmly, “talking about my possibly lifelong, married-couple happiness with Lily Evans, because that would be very disturbing. So disturbing, in fact, that I deem it impossible.”

            Sirius grins, relieved.

            “Oh, thank Merlin! Let’s never, ever have the girl discussion again.”

            “Until we’re at least twenty. Maybe twenty-five,” Remus agrees.

            “Or never?” asks Sirius, with his stupid begging eyes. Remus shoots him a little smile.

            “Sure, Sirius. See you in a bit,” he says.


	9. In A Name

Sometimes Remus is exhausted after a Sirius experience. Sometimes he feels drained, sometimes he feels like Sirius outshines everyone around him so brightly that only James can exist in his world, and maybe Peter, but Remus will be extinguished completely.

This is not one of those days at all, which would normally be a good thing – even a great one.

Unfortunately, his residual good mood from…whatever that was, an argument, a discussion, a fumbling attempt to dodge whatever emotions were swarming around there that neither of them want to see or hear anything about, has left him in a predicament with Lily Evans.

Only Remus could get himself in trouble with _happiness,_ he thinks with a rapidly sinking stomach.

The predicament has taken the form of a large, superbly well-formed patronus which is very obviously wolf-like, and is currently padding in a protective circle around Remus while Lily watches with very wide green eyes.

Remus is probably white as a sheet, he certainly feels like there’s no blood left in his face. Lily is smart. Lily is mature. And Remus is very, very stupid.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could really do it?” Lily asks with soft wonder in her voice. She takes a step towards the hulking patronus, and it immediately stiffens in a protective stance.

“She’s a friend,” Remus tries to tell it, feeling ridiculous, his mouth dry. The wolf looks away from Lily and resumes is pacing.

“Ugh, I’m so envious, Remus,” she says, absently tugging at ringlets of her hair. It begins to dawn on him that she’s hardly reacting to its form at all, just the fact that he’s conjured one. His heart slows down a little. He begins to cover.

“I can’t do it every time. I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he says, and it’s only half a lie. Remus wipes his sweating hands on his robes. The silvery wolf fades away, and he even dares to smile.

“Alright,” he says, gathering his composure. “Please try the spell yourself, Lily. We still have some time before lunch. Maybe I can help you.”

Lily grins, and Remus finally unclenches his fists.

 

* * *

 

It’s only a few days later that Sirius’s first patronus explodes from his wand, silvery and glittering across the tiles of Myrtle’s bathroom. They all see the flash of fury held tight under Sirius’s skin before he turns his back quickly to them all. Peter gamely applauds a tiny bit, but it doesn’t cover his and James’s surprise at Sirius’s reaction.

“Sirius?” asks James, “What’s your problem, mate? You did it.”

“Really, at least you’ve managed one,” says Peter helpfully. Sirius’s back is tense enough that Remus thinks he looks about ready to shatter.

“It’s a dog,” Remus finally explains, perplexed that they don’t understand right away. Normally James does, at least.

Remus doesn’t have to try to explain further, because just at the moment James’s face begins to show a dawning realization, Sirius explodes. One could almost hear the sound of it echo off the bathroom walls.

“A dog. Do you know what dogs do, James? They’re _owned._ They’re slaves to their fucking masters, they’re kicked in the dirt, and they’re kept on a leash. _Fuck this_.” He slashes his wand through the air and the patronus dissipates. James and Peter shuffle their feet. Sirius’s body quakes. So angry, so angry, so much rage at all that his family does and stands for and he is their dog, burn it all.

“Well, I don’t think you’re a very good dog,” Remus says finally. Sirius’s head jerks up; his grey eyes bore into Remus. James looks like he wants Remus to shut up, but Remus stumbles onwards. “You tend to bite the hand that feeds,” says Remus, feeling the words slip out awkwardly and too-sincere, too quiet and private. Sirius lets out a long, hoarse laugh. He stands still by himself for a very long time, head tipped back, hair spilling over his shoulders.

Finally Sirius shakes himself and strides over to give Remus a manly slap on the back that lingers too long, his hand warm between Remus’s shoulder blades. There is a new and wild energy in his eyes. He brings up his wand again, hand still on Remus’s robes as if he’s forgotten it, but he hasn’t, Remus can see it in his eyes.

Sirius is neither shaky nor desperate. This is confidence. This is the glorious, sparking Sirius who charmed Remus’s Mam into silence by his mere presence in a little Welsh cottage, who is so alive that he makes Remus’s habit of considering things like life expectancy and the percent chance that he will die by his own clawed hands seem like foolish nightmares. It’s not true, of course, but it’s a lie Remus loves.

The dog surges again from Sirius’s wand. It leaps and runs like a bear-sized puppy, pulsing and bright, playfully snapping its jaws at nothing they can see.

Remus, certain that Sirius will notice soon that they’re standing too close, pulls away to stand near the sinks.

“Expecto Patronum,” Remus says quietly, but he’s good at it by now; the wolf jumps forth immediately. He watches it, not his friends, who have grouped together by the tall, perpetually steamy windows.

“See that, lads?” murmurs James to Sirius and Peter, all of them standing just out of earshot from Remus, watching wolf and dog leap in the air above toilet stalls. “That’s our goal.” James knows that if he gives Sirius something to sink his teeth into, this challenge to meet, he will push himself harder than ever before. When Sirius pushes himself, he pushes James, and James will push Peter, and James knows the best way to fight their way to the Animagus spell will be like that, like goading each other into more ridiculous pranks. None of them step down from a dare.

It really is a vision, though, the two hulking, silvery canine forms leaping around each other through the air as if it’s water. Even Myrtle is staring, quietly, from her toilet bowl.

“Come on, Peter, give it a try,” says James when the two Patronuses fade to mist, and as one they raise their wands.

 

* * *

 

A wordy-looking note is pinned to the silver mirror above Remus’s bed in the hidden hospital room. Remus squints, but can’t read it from where he lays, propped up on pillows. It takes fifteen minutes to figure out how to raise his good arm – the one that wasn’t broken into what felt like a million pieces last night – but he finally manages to force shaking fingers, stiff with bandages, to snatch it off the mirror.

Wotcher, Moony!

We stopped by this morning to say hi – you do know you chat with us while you’re still all loopy, right? You were mooning over Evans’s modified Aguamenti spell and also how much you like ginger biscuits. It’s all nonsensical, but that’s hardly a problem as we have one Sirius Black in our number, and he speaks Nonsensical all the time! You’ll teach him English someday, never fear.

Wanted to drop a note, as we can’t be there at lunchtime today, when you get all sane and stuffy but make a lot more sense. We’re sorry about that, but we’ll see you tonight. Sirius says he’ll make a kitchen run if you miss dinner. I think he’s going soft.

Take care of yourself sweet mooning Moony!

Cheers,

J, S, and P

PS. Get it? MOONY. HAHAHAHA IT’S PERFECT.

 

Remus stares at James’s note for a long time.

“No,” he says finally, very calmly. He has the horrible feeling that yes, they’ve nicknamed him, his denial aside. It was only a matter of time until they tried something like this.

“It will never stick,” Remus says firmly, burrowing himself under the blankets. “Never.”

But when he finally talks Madam Pomfrey into letting him go that evening, James greets him in the dormitory with a loud, “Hullo there Moony! As you might’ve noticed, we’ve decided we need nicknames.”

“No,” says Remus. Repetition is important when teaching small children.

“Just for us,” wheedles Peter, sitting up on his bed and passing him a chocolate frog with a sneaky sleight of hand trick.

“Or not,” Remus says flatly. “You…you already have a nickname. You can be Pete.”

“That is incredibly boring,” moans Peter, flopping back down again on his dishevelled quilt. Remus opens his chocolate frog, which leaps quickly onto Remus’s bed hangings. He attempts to recapture it without allowing himself to be distracted.

“We can trade,” suggests Remus dryly. “You, Peter, can be called…Moony. The rest of you can call me Pete.”

“No way you’re getting rid of it that easily, Moony,” says Sirius, appearing in the dormitory doorway with a long, slow grin. He walks over and splays out on his own bed, lounging.

Remus knows he’ll give them whatever they want in the end. It just so happens to be Sirius who wins him over most of the time. Peter was probably playing for time until Sirius showed up and grinned and left Remus frustrated and unsure how he’s lost an argument with just a sentence out of Sirius.

“What are all _your_ moronic nicknames then?” he sighs, finally plucking the chocolate frog out of his hangings. He bites off its head a little viciously.

“Victoryyyyy!” crow James and Peter, throwing pillows up in the air. Sirius just lies back with a silent, cocky smile.

“Well,” explains James, “we’re still figuring ours out. We want them to relate to our ani—our patronus forms. Pete almost got his today.” He grins at Peter, who goes pink.

“Nice, Peter,” Remus says, legitimately impressed. He turns to James. Remus, always bad at giving up, tries in one last attempt to stave off being called Moony for the entire foreseeable future. “Don’t you think we’re a little old for nicknames?”

They look thrown off for barely a beat.

“They’re code names, then,” pronounces James proudly. “And you don’t have to panic like I know you were about to—”

“I was not!” Remus protests heatedly.

“—because we really will only use them amongst ourselves. No one needs to know that you’re Moony.”

“But what if—”

“Not buts, Moony. If it gets that bad, we’ll just have to learn _obliviate_ ,” James laughs.

They’re joking, but Remus thinks that if it came to that, maybe they’d mean it. He’d rather not think about how far he’s dragged them into his mess. Remus changes the subject.

“So, where were you lot at lunch today? Detention in the trophy room again?”

“Er, no actually. That’s a surprise isn’t it?” laughs James. Remus doesn’t even notice that he sounds a little guilty because that’s how James sounds all the time. Like he’s up to something, even the rare times when he isn’t. It drives Snape insane.

 

* * *

They don’t get these moments to practice the Animagus transformation very often. There are most full moon days, yes, but they try to visit Remus in the morning and at lunchtime, which kills most of their free time if it’s a weekday. Sirius wonders if it’s his own concern for Remus and his impatience with the spell that’s making Remus look progressively worse after every full moon, or if the transformations are actually becoming more violent. Sirius tries to ask Remus himself on several occasions, but the words always stick in his throat.

“Do you think it’ll be that painful to become an Animagus?” asks Peter one evening, his voice pitched low. Remus is playing chess across the common room with Alice Shepperd. Her pieces keep trying to flip his off the board when he’s not looking, but Remus is winning anyway. Alice doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, but to them it’s painfully obvious that the moon is near, that the joints are stiff and Remus’s bones are aching in brittle.

“Transformations are always painful in some way,” says James, shrugging. “But ours should take more of a mental toll; it’ll probably feel more strange than painful. Unless McGonagall was lying to me.”

“You asked her?” gasps Peter.

James and Sirius shrug. “It would be silly not to, wouldn’t it? When we’ve got one that’s fully certified right under our noses.”

“Can’t ask too much though,” says Sirius, talking while his quill scratches across the page. He could probably do his Ancient Runes homework in his sleep. “McGoogles gets so suspicious.”

Peter sighs, watching across the common room as Remus takes Alice Shepperd’s queen while she and her remaining pawns curse him loudly. “I’m just glad it doesn’t hurt. I hate pain.”

“Good thing you’re not Remus,” grumbles Sirius, dropping his quill and twining his ink-splattered fingers together and resting his chin on them. “We should really get him to smoke some gillyweed. I’ve heard it’s good for dealing with pain.”

“Nice try, Padfoot,” says James. “But none of us have any gillyweed for you.”

Sirius huffs. “I just want to try it, why do people get so up in arms? Anyway, I really do mean it; I read it somewhere. It helps. Makes it hurt less.”

“So long as I don’t need it, I’m happy,” grumbles Peter. “Let’s talk about something else.”

What they’re not mentioning to Peter is that the transformation doesn’t hurt only if you get it right. And none of them seem anywhere close to that. Most of the time, when they try, nothing whatsoever happens. When things do get exciting, they’re never according to plan.

For instance, a few weeks later, James actually manages to Apparate, completely unintentionally without ever having done it before, into the nearest herd of roe deer.

           

Of course, at the time, Sirius and Peter have no idea what’s happened, and all chaos is let loose.

“Has he banished himself?” demands Peter in a high-pitched shriek.

“Aghh, don’t scream like that,” shouts Sirius, pulling at his hair, “You’ll sound like a rat!”

“I just sound like this!” Peter returns, even more shrilly. “Oh, Merlin’s balls, where is he?”

“He apparated! I heard the crack, he bloody apparated! Why didn’t he tell us he can apparate?”

“He _can’t,”_ yelps Peter. “It’s got to be the Cloak!”

“It isn’t, the cloak’s right here!” Sirius insists, holding up the silvery fabric and letting it fall back to the floor next to James’s bed, getting lost in the rolls and rolls of parchment they’ve used up researching. “I’m telling you, he bloody apparated!”

Peter pales. “But that makes no sense! He was trying to turn into a stag, not go on...on a vacation! And you can’t apparate at Hogwarts; Remus is always telling us that.” He begins to rifle through the mess of parchment and spellbooks that has taken over the dormitory floor, trying to find anything to explain sudden disappearances.

“Shut up, shut up!” shouts Sirius. “I have to think! Weren’t they…didn’t they have apparition classes going on today for the sixth and seventh years? Gideon was talking about it – he and Fabian didn’t pass last year, so they’re trying again now. They put the wards down for that.”

“But they said the wards should only be down in the Great Hall,” yelps Peter, waving his arms frantically. “They shouldn’t be down here.”

Sirius crosses his arms, taps his foot.

“Well they are,” he snaps. “People make mistakes; even Apparition instructors.”

“Oh no, I’ll bet he’s splinched himself,” howls Peter.

“Apparition is…it’s similar to transformation, in a way, isn’t it?” Sirius seizes Peter’s shoulders and gives him a little shake. “Right Wormtail?”

“Er,” says Peter, “I hope that’s not supposed to be _my_ codename.”

“’Course it is, James and I have discussed this. And the current emergency is a perfect time for code names, don’t be daft.” Sirius swats his hand through the air, then switches trains of thought entirely. “But apparition you have to have a wand for, while with the animagus transformation we won’t always need them. The main theory in both of them is really, really concentrating on what you want your body to do, whether to go somewhere or change into something.”

Sirius paces across the dormitory, scattering rolls of parchment as he goes.

“Right, right, he was concentrating on a stag.” He bends down and grabs a piece of parchment where the full anatomy of a stag is drawn in incredible detail. Another fragment of parchment falls out of its folds. It’s a little map of some of the tricky to find passages and a moving sketch of the staircases in the main passages of the castle. James and Peter were playing around with that for an hour before they started the animagus work. Sirius sighs.

“Don’t let your other stuff get mixed in with the Very Secret Don’t Tell Moony Project papers. We’ll have to shove it all back under James’s bed in a bit.” He hands Peter the parchment. Peter watches one of the bigger staircases wobbly alarmingly and shoot off to the left and is vaguely glad that he’s not on his way to class. Then he remembers that he has much bigger problems.

“Okay, okay,” Sirius tugs at his hair. It sticks out at odd angles and makes him look even more insane than usual, “He was concentrating on becoming and stag and then he apparates. He needs a destination; that just doesn’t work!”

“What if he got distracted and thought of the kitchens?” asks Peter, his panic rising.

“Maybe…maybe if they have venison in the kitchens?” Sirius says desperately. “No, that can’t be it. The stag must’ve been the destination, don’t you see? The…the forest or something! The nearest stag!”

“No, I was in the kitchens earlier and IT’S ALL CHICKEN SIRIUS!” screams Peter, not following at all, as if anyone could. 

This is of course the moment Remus walks in.

“What,” he demands, “is happening. And what have you done to the dormitory.” He steps through the doorway and tries to get a closer look at the notes and diagrams all over the parchment-strewn floor. “What are all these for? You’re not actually _studying_ are you?”

Sirius looks at Peter. Peter looks at Sirius. They are standing in a dormitory surrounded by a sea of very obvious Animagus research, they’ve just lost James to Merlin-knows-where, and they are screaming at the top of their lungs about meat.

What a normal day. Unfortunately, Remus doesn’t look like he’s lost interest. Sirius casts his eyes around searching for anything, a distraction, a scapegoat. His eyes fall on the only unincriminating piece of parchment in the entire room, the one he handed to Peter moments ago.

“A map, Moony! We’ve decided to make a map!”

“There was just a small…difficulty,” squeaks Peter. “I botched a spell, and there was a parchment explosion.”

This is a great lie. Sirius approves of Peter very much in that moment.

Remus doesn’t frown, but the tiniest disapproval shows in the quirk of his eyebrows. They wait, holding their breath.

“Ask me for help next time you start your silly, dangerous experiments,” he says finally. “Do you want a hand with the clean up?”

“No thanks,” Sirius croaks. “But actually I do need to, er, disappear for a few hours.”

“Oh?” asks Remus, eyebrow raised. Sirius flicks his wand a couple times and shunts all the parchment under James’s bed. It barely fits. He thinks he hears an ominous creak. Well, if James’s bed is going to implode a little, he doesn’t need to stick around to see it.

“Yes, on the run from the authorities and all that. You might want to, um, not be seen anywhere on the grounds this afternoon.” He grabs Peters arm and drags him out the door and down the stairs. Remus, forgetting the dormitory for the moment, follows.

“And are you going to tell me why?” demands Remus.

“Not a chance, Moony!” Sirius shouts, running across the common room and through the portrait hole, a very disgruntled Peter in tow.

Sirius does not stop when Remus can no longer see or hear them, as Peter expects him to do. No, he keeps running full out, down three staircases, through one secret passage, and finally skids to a stop before the final descent on the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

“I just completely ditched Remus, didn’t I?” he asks, suddenly pensive. Peter gapes.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about!” Peter tells him. “We need to find James. Where are we going?”

“I did though. He probably thinks we’re having fun behind his back, you know.” Sirius nibbles a thumbnail.

“Sirius, where were you taking us?” Peter demands, lowering his voice as several Slytherins drift by.

“Piss off, Mulciber,” Sirius says automatically as Mulciber and chums pass, hissing impolite suggestions back. “To James, of course.”

“And where is James?” asks Peter, waving his arms in frustration.

“If I’m right, Prongs has returned to his own kind.”

“Sirius, _please_ do not speak in riddles! Not now.” Peter waves his arms, already feeling exhausted by all this panic.

“He was focusing on a stag. The apparition wards were down, so instead of transforming, his body did what’s easier, magically. It apparated to the nearest stag. Which would be,” Sirius gestures impatiently towards the huge double doors, “in the Forbidden Forest.”

This makes only marginally more sense, though Peter doesn’t see much point in telling him so.

“But maybe I should go back and get Remus,” Sirius says.

“Remus is fine!” says Peter, exasperated. “If it bothers you, which it never has before, mate, I have to say, then you can talk to him later. James, on the other hand, is probably not fine, probably splinched, and alone in the Forest.”

Peter’s voice gets a little squeaky around the end of his speech again, but Sirius just makes a little ‘mmm’ sound and strikes out again for the doors. They race down the lawn, around the lake.

“Bugger,” Sirius says suddenly, “Hagrid’s in.”

From the stoop of the groundkeeper’s hut, Hagrid can see almost the entire border where the Forbidden Forest meets the castle grounds, including the bit near the Quidditch fields where herds of deer sometimes wander close when the stands are empty and quiet.

It’s such a bloody long shot. Sirius is sure that if James were here, he would have a better plan.

“Pete,” he says, beginning to feel foolish and desperate. “Distract Hagrid. Somehow. Anyhow. I’ll go into the forest.”

Peter gives him a look, part fearful, part incredulous, and part mischievous. He’s one of them, after all.

“I think I’ve got something I can use,” he says with a shaky little smile, pulling a mostly-finished flute out of his robes, the one he’s been whittling for the past two weeks. At Sirius’s look, Peter adds defensively, “Well, he likes...carving things, doesn’t he?”

Before Sirius can reply that the last thing he saw Hagrid carve was an entire row-boat, and he’d done it mostly by bending planks with his bare hands as they made horrible screeching noises, Peter veers off towards Hagrid’s cabin. Sirius spares a moment to appreciate how Peter just _does_ , and doesn’t ask too many questions, all things considered.

He walks behind the Quidditch stadium, out of Hagrid’s line of sight.

“I thought I might find you here,” says a voice.

Sirius jumps, heart skidding up to bump his tonsils, then scowls.

“Didn’t I tell you that the grounds were the last place you wanted to be?” he asks.

Remus smiles, a little uncertain in the striped shadows under the stadium, but he hunches his shoulders in a way that means he’s not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to tell me what you’ve done to get in trouble. Just let me help out.” He smiles crookedly. “You and Pete looked a little panicked.” Remus cranes his neck and looks around. “Where _is_ Peter? And James? Under the cloak?”

Sirius shakes his head and brings his fingers up to bite at a hangnail. They agreed not to tell Remus until they knew they could do it. Remus is normally very practical and serious, but when it comes to anything involving the werewolf he tends to panic. Especially if it’s affecting other people, like his friends.

Sirius wants to tell him. Wants to say, ‘it’s only a matter of time now, Moony.’ But Remus, even with all his brains, will think he is totally in the right to try to sabotage the Project. He’d stop them at all costs, so they’ll just have to tell him when they’re too far in to turn back. James had explained all this ages ago when they’d first started out.

It’s still difficult.

“Well, we’ve lost James.”

An eyebrow rises right up into Remus’s brown bangs.

“We were mucking about with some spells and we didn’t know the anti-apparition wards were down, and well. Shwoop!” He waves his hand and tries a smile.

“Shwoop.” Remus deadpans. “You don’t mean he disapparated?”

“Yep,” says Sirius, back to being manically and inappropriately cheerful about the whole thing now that Remus has turned up. He feels almost comforted. “And I think he’s in the Forbidden Forest near here.” Sirius points, and Remus begins to stride towards the trees right away. Sirius hurries to follow.

“Explain this to me sometime,” Remus says casually, waving a hand in Sirius’s direction. “Let’s just find him now. You said near here?”

“I-I think. Oh, burn it! It’s just a guess, Remus, I have no clue what I’m doing.” Sirius stops in his tracks at the edge of the trees.

Remus looks at him with steady brown eyes.

“You never have an idea what you’re doing and everything turns out okay. Don’t panic, Sirius, just think. What would James do if he was stranded in the forest?”

“A signal. Sparks,” Sirius supplies dutifully. They reach the edge of the forest and Sirius hesitates a moment to listen, but Remus doesn’t pause, just strides into the dark, twisting shadows. It’s mid-afternoon and sunny, but among the trees it’s surprisingly dark and cold for such a nice late spring morning.

“James!” Sirius shouts. Little, invisible things scamper away in the undergrowth. Remus and Sirius exchange glances and shiver.

“There!” whispers Remus suddenly, “do you hear that?”

“Er, no,” says Sirius.

Remus flushes.

“Right, you probably can’t. It sounds like firecrackers.”

Then Sirius hears it.

“That’s him!” enthuses Sirius. He tries to rush towards the noise.

“Sirius! Wait a minute. That could be something else.”

There’s a pause in which possibly Sirius remembers there are reasons that this forest is forbidden. Not that they haven’t been in here before, of course, but they always bring broomsticks along and none of them are ever stranded.

“James!” Sirius shouts again.

“Hullo there Sirius, Remus,” calls James’s voice out of the gloom, startling Sirius into nearly swallowing his own tongue. It seems to come from a little dip off to their left. Sirius and Remus shout “James!” and scramble over the ridge.

“I seem to have splinched off most of my hair and possibly my kneecaps,” continues James, sounding rather jolly and unconcerned about it. “However, I have made friends!”

Sirius looks over at Remus. Remus looks in the direction of a knot of blackberry bushes, beyond which, he assumes, is James.

“Do you think he hit his head?” he whispers.

“Let’s go and see,” suggests Remus, lips thin.

They emerge into a small clearing, just a little bit brighter than the rest of the forest. Thick grass has grown up in the slight extra sunlight, and in it lies James, completely bald, and surrounded by an entire herd of roe deer.

The deer stare. Remus stares, and apparently wins. In a thunder of hooves, the herd flees.

“Well Remus,” says James after a beat, “this is a little difficult to explain.”

Remus laughs and casts a numbing spell on James’s knees.

“To be honest, Mister Potter, I really don’t want to know. Sirius, will you lift him?”

Sirius levitates James, who looks incredibly strange without the wild shock of black hair

“Nice adventure, yeah Remus?” he asks, doing some mid-air jazz hands.

Remus shakes his head as if he can’t find words for his disapproval, but Sirius suspects it has been a nice adventure, in the end. Even if James does need to regrow some kneecaps.

 

                                                         * * *

 

_Sirius Orion Black_

_Gryffindor Common Room_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_

_Scotland_

_Dearest cousin,_

_Have you heard of the Knights of Walpurgis? Arm yourself with more than that quick wand-arm I’ve been hearing about. Keep an ear out; be watchful and be wise. I have stepped away from this battle, but I fear, dear cousin, that you are in the thick of it._

_Love,_

_Andromeda_

 

Sirius brings the letter to James first. He doesn’t even speak, just hands it to him with a single glance. James reads quickly and looks up.

“I don’t know anything.”

Sirius nods and makes to go, but James isn’t finished yet.

“That name though, Walpurgis. It’s one of those things my parents talk about when they think I can’t hear.”

Sirius’s lips become a grim line. They are heirs, even if James almost never thinks of himself as such. They are purebloods, whether they want it or care. They know all about whispers and closed doors and what those things tend to mean. And even then it wouldn’t be so bad, except—

“Yes,” says Sirius, “Mine too.”

They part in the common room, James to the Quidditch pitch and Sirius to one of the lumpy sofas, but he doesn’t feel satisfied. The letter burns in his pocket.

By the windows Remus is bent over his homework, quill scribbling madly. It stops when Sirius nears, even if he doesn’t look up. From under his dark fringe, Sirius peers around them. Most of the other Gryffindors are seated further off; the closest is Evans, and that’s probably only because James is on the exact opposite side of the common room, in the armchair closest to the fire. He must’ve bribed the Prewett twins to get that seat. Sirius wonders if that’s where his own good set of wizard’s chess has got to. He pushes it out of his mind and leans close to Remus.

The boy glances up, blinking away tight exhaustion in his eyes. It’s already close to full again, and it jolts Sirius to realize he knows this without thinking about it. Between watching the moon and watching Remus, he’s living the lunar cycle. That is…more important than the missing chess pieces. But it needs to go away too, because he needs to _think,_ burn it, and say something before Remus gives him that mild “you’re lunatic” look and goes back to his Arithmancy.

“Have you heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?” Sirius asks, low and quiet. Remus’s loose and tired gaze hardens. He looks back down to his notes, little numbers sprawling across the page in geometric patterns, the supremacy of threes and sevens and nines. The way growing things react to the number four.

“Just rumour. Nothing I could really say about it.”

There is a soft scoff from nearby. Lily Evans can hear better than Sirius gave her credit for. She gazes at Remus, mouth pinched. Her red hair glows in the firelight. Her eyes are too green.

“Remus, don’t pretend you haven’t seen the writing on the wall,” she whispers, short and annoyed.

“Er, which way do you mean?” Remus hedges. “Literal, or in a more theological sense of the phrase? Sirius won’t understand it, anyway, that’s the problem with all the Judeo-Christian vocabulary in the Muggle English language; wizards – or witches – raised outside the—”

“Literally, actually Remus, but nice try.” Her eyes stay steady on him. “Though it is good to have someone understand the many meanings behind a Muggle phrase like that.”

Remus winces. “I actually would rather you’d just meant it literally, and not admitted a double entendre of a prophecy of doom.”

“I was talking about the writing on the bathroom walls.”

Sirius, desperate for something in this conversation that makes any sense, jumps in.

“Listen, I scrubbed all that off weeks ago for a detention. So no harm done, yeah?”

Two annoyed gazes pierce him. Sirius wonders when they became a sodding team.

“Just a bit of slander, I suppose,” says Lily slowly, like her words are stones she’s turning over in her mouth. “Nothing I’m about to burst into tears over. But it definitely mentions the Knights of Walpurgis.”

“The girls’ bathrooms are behind, then,” says Remus glumly, meeting no one’s eyes. “They’re calling themselves the Death Eaters now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plot intensifies* 
> 
> For the record, the HP wiki does say something about the origins of the Death Eaters as a group, and one of their early names was the Knights of Walpurgis. I can't remember what that referenced, but it's just one of those facts that stuck in my head like algebra never managed.


	10. In which blue blood isn't much help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few shout-outs to The Shoebox Project in this one, if you feel like playing Spot the Reference

That summer it is 1974 and Remus is fourteen and will not put the Werewolf Not around his neck.

 

His parents try. They use the same reasons that persuaded him before. Yes, Remus knows what life would be like if he were found out. He knows that the Not helped him keep his mouth shut in the past. No, he will not put on the Not. It comes up over and over, about once every week and a half.

 

The entire summer, he is afraid his Mam will cry. If she cries, he will put on the Not; he wouldn’t be able to help it. But no, she doesn’t cry, she just sits there, stony, elbows planted on their cheap plastic table cloth. It is hot out, for once, and stifling in the kitchen is too. The whole house smells like her cigarettes.

 

Today is like every other before it, except today there is a letter from Lily Evans in Remus’s pocket. Remus doesn’t want to look at it again. He can’t understand why she’s writing to him about this. Why not all her friends, all those clean-smelling girls who surround her at school? Those same girls seem to feel so comfortable around Remus, so safe. He wants to scream at them and tell them what he really is.

 

I am your nightmares, Remus things idly, maybe pandering to his sense of drama, his thumb rubbing over the parchment in his pocket as he stands in the kitchen under his mother’s gaze.

 

“If that’s what you want, Remus,” Mam finally says from her place at the table, this same conversation going ever on and on. She’s looks up at him with dry eyes. They’re green. Remus always wished he had his Mam’s eyes. His were green when he was a kid, but they flattened and darkened to brown like his father’s as he grew up. It has nothing to do with the wolf, just genes. Just aging.

 

“It’s what I want,” he agrees. Across the kitchen Dad doesn’t look at him, just watches Mam. They all watch Mam, all the time. They watch the sweat on her arms, the print of her sundress that has wrinkled from the humid heat. They watch the smoke curl out of her lips.

 

“Open a window, Remus,” Mam says irritably. He jumps to comply. Lily’s letter feels brittle in his pocket. She wrote it on parchment instead of Muggle paper, so it makes a louder noise than he expects when he stretches in his trousers.

 

Remus wants to go outside, to stop watching his Mam and go out to the cliff, but no one will be there. He wants to talk to Sirius, even if Sirius has nothing useful to say.

 

Remus stays in the kitchen. This is his family, brittle as they are. Family means that there is a debt here, so huge and awful that he will never be able to repay it. Even knowing this, he’s not wearing the Not. Maybe this makes him a terrible person. He hopes it doesn’t, but acknowledges it as a possibility.

 

Dad washes some dishes that aren’t dirty. He takes them right out of the cupboard and into the sink. Remus stands by the open window, trying to get a whiff of fresh air.

 

Sometimes Sirius sends letters, if you could call them that. They’re hardly more than a sentence or two, normally. His parents aren’t letting him go to Devon anymore, or anywhere as far as Remus can tell. The freedom of third year has fallen away. Sometimes there are no letters at all, just bits of things Sirius has found. Little things, often shiny ones. Chipped and twisted bits of chrome. A tinted light bulb. A girls’ plastic compact with a picture of Disney’s Cinderella on the outside. All things Sirius can pick up off the sidewalks of Islington. If there’s a signature, it’s normally just a P. or a sketched dog’s pawprint, for his Patronus.

 

Remus puts them away in places no one will look, hopefully. He never leaves them out to clutter his room. He knows Sirius probably sends similar things to James and Peter, but not the same things. Never the same things. Remus takes the Cinderella mirror down with him into the bunker, and carefully washes the blood off every morning after. He wonders if he’s understanding what Sirius is trying to say.

 

When Mam finishes her cigarette she gets out her reading glasses and pulls a folder of bills out of a kitchen drawer and spreads them out on the table. It doesn’t look like she’ll need the two of them, so Remus and his Dad drift off, Dad to the living room, Remus to his desk.

 

He tries to work on the summer homework for Defence, but it feels difficult and pointless. They’ll just have a new teacher again next year who’ll want different things.

 

Resigned, he draws Lily’s letter out of his pocket, overly cautious lest it begin to crumble.

 

Of course, it does not. The script is familiar, from all the time he’s spent checking over Lily’s Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, while she tries to help him in Potions. Remus feels rather guilty, thinking how put out James will be if he realises Lily has written to Remus but not to him. She knows James fancies her, and she knows Remus is James’s friend. He’s almost a little angry that she’s put him in this position. He wonders if she’s not a little angry about it too, being expected to limit herself for James’s feelings.

 

Thinking about it makes Remus uncomfortable, but the letter itself is much worse. He reads it again anyway.

 

_Remus,_

_I hope you’re doing alright. There have been a few scares lately, haven’t there? I hope it hasn’t really reached you. Do you mind if I talk about it a little? I hope not._

_Myself and several others I know have been receiving anti-muggleborn hate mail recently. I seem to be getting the lion’s share, from what I can tell. Maybe it’s because I turned in Rosier and his little cronies for teasing some Hufflepuff girls after final exams last year. If so, I have no regrets. I hope they get hung from the Quidditch hoops by their toes (but don’t tell anyone I said it)._

_Some of the letters are hexed to cause boils or rashes, which I learned the hard way. My parents are both Muggles, so they can’t heal it and to be honest I don’t want them to know. They think magic is all fun and games and fairy tales. It’s an illusion, but they love it so much that I can’t bring myself to break it._

_Normally I’d ask Severus for some healing potions – I didn’t bring many home after last term, and I used one up with the first cursed letter. Actually I did ask him, but at first he didn’t reply. I tried again, thinking maybe the owl had got lost or delivered to the wrong place – she’s Alice Shepperd’s, I was borrowing her. He responded and said that I should have “kept my head down” or I’d “never have gotten myself into this mess”. He’s been my friend for almost ten years._

_Maybe I did behave in an antagonistic way, and I am not about to regret it. But most of the others receiving the letters this summer have kept quiet. I have to wonder what in God’s name they want from us. I love the wizarding world. I love magic. I can’t understand though, what they want. Do they just want people like me to disappear? Do they want me to be meek and quiet? I don’t think I could be._

_I know both Muggle and wizarding history. I will tell you what I see: people are afraid. There aren’t many witches and wizards and there are so many Muggles. There’s not a lot of money right now. Even the goblins are restless. There’s too much propaganda and too much hate. You’re smart, Remus, and I suspect you, unlike your compatriots, read the paper. You know what this can mean. I hope I’m wrong, and this is just stupid teenage hazing._

_You might have noticed, reading this letter, that I hope a lot of things._

_I read every letter I receive (with the help of dragon hide gloves, of course) firstly because I want to understand, and secondly because I am far, far more angry than I am afraid. “Know thine enemy”, or so they say. If I recognize the handwriting on them anywhere else, I am going to request the spell you used on Bulstrode last semester. That was a nasty piece of work, and I know you thought no one saw you do it, so I wasn’t going to bring it up. And to be honest I didn’t really approve - but I’m beginning to appreciate it. The people who send these deserve it._

_They’re not just attacking me, and that’s why I’m so furious. I’ve snapped three quills just writing this. It’s a lot of other muggleborn students, mostly the young ones. I keep hearing about it, maybe three a month. Little Olive Caradan was hexed in broad daylight on Diagon Alley. They got the gits what did it, but they got barely a slap on the wrist. She had “MUDBLOOD” across her forehead like they’d burned it there._

_Some of the Gryffindor girls like Olive have written to me, asking for help or guidance – anything. I don’t know what to tell them. I think they don’t believe I would get this type of mail._

_Thank you for your time,_

_Lily_

 

Remus doesn’t think she wants a response. He almost wants to ask her why, why, why me? Why not Alice Shepperd, who’s close enough to Lily to lend her an owl? And why does she let him spy this glance at Lily’s vulnerable side, which Remus wasn’t completely sure existed up until now? She didn’t want to destroy the illusion for her parents, but she’s fine with destroying his vision of her as this unbreakable force? Touché, Lily Evans.

 

Yet another part of him is glad. Glad that she trusts him. Glad that he might have a friend in her, even if she’d hate to admit it. And if he’s honest, she seems a little stronger to him now. Remus would bet she’s already responded to all those letters asking for help, and that in each one she said just the right things.

 

This summer can’t last forever. Cooler weather will have to come eventually and take away the heat that drives them all mad. They’ll all take the train up to Scotland and he can see his friends again. Sirius will become more than a steady supply of desperate trinkets that seem to scream “Yes, I still exist!” in a worrying sort of way. He hopes; he _hopes_.

 

* * *

 

Sirius has taken to getting into trouble on purpose so they’ll lock him in his room and he has more time to practice. The dog is beginning to feel like a new friend, always present, half-formed in his mind. This could be the spell or this could be Sirius’s imagination, but Sirius does not care either way. Any friendly company is welcome right now.

 

Today he’s managed to become significantly more hairy all over, not quite enough for a real dog, but quite a bit for a human. Sirius fancies he looks a bit like those completely inaccurate pictures of werewolves in the books he and the others poured through, looking for help for Remus.

 

They’re still looking for a spell to force themselves back in case they really botch up the transformation, but none of them have it yet, though James says he’s close.

 

James bloody well needs one of those spells. He writes updates in his progress in invisible ink on the back of more mundane letters he sends to Sirius. So far he’s managed to transfigure himself a set of deer teeth (painful, very ugly) and his stomach (he was a vegetarian for a while, much to the confusion of his parents). Peter is not faring any better, but the only time he’s really shrunk and got stuck there was at Hogwarts, so there have been no major disasters as of yet.

 

Then there is, of course, this fur. It would be easier to celebrate what a big step forward this is if it weren’t so hot today. Sirius scratches and sighs. He has until this evening for the fur to wear off. As much as he’d love to show up to a formal supper looking quite a lot like a gorilla, that will hardly keep their secret.

 

Sirius takes a moment to remember just how illegal this whole thing is and grins. Maybe after supper he’ll sneak out; he’s in that sort of mood. London seems to tremble outside the windows, filled with some magnetic energy he loves and hates in equal measure.

 

For now he’s trapped. Sirius sits on the floor and gazes up at his Gryffindor banners. His parents hardly ever come into the room anymore, which is helpful, really, but Sirius hates being alone. Not that he wants the company of anyone in this house. There are some letters he’s charmed to stick to the slats on the bottom of his bed, so they can only be found if someone goes under there and looks up. Kreacher certainly doesn’t bother dusting under Sirius’s bed. It is, admittedly, a jungle under there.

 

The worst thing about summer is easily the isolation. Sirius misses Godric’s Hollow with something akin to homesickness, and he’s only spent Christmas and Easter there, and Peter’s home in Bristol – a city he’s never even visited – seems like heaven. And of course Wales, with that little cottage on the side of the nameless mountain. Well, that place has Remus. He needn’t explain more.

 

By early evening the hair still hasn’t gone away, even with several spells attempted on it. Sirius locks and bars his door, gets into a screaming fight with his mother, and sulks by the windows as, over supper, the dark, thick dog hair morphs back into its normal human counterpart. He looks perfectly normal when he’s hauled down the stairs by the hood of his robes by Father, and thrown into the cellar for the night.

It is very, very dark.

It is very, very quiet.

He breathes. It is very important to breathe. Otherwise sitting in the cellar feels a bit like being dead.

To pass the time Sirius tries to think of new things to send his friends. Letters. But Remus never responds to letters; still doesn’t write when Sirius is at home. Sirius is not stupid enough that he can’t understand the reasons, but it still burns a little.

“I would write to him,” he whispers aloud. His voice sounds too Londoner, too posh, too Black. He wishes he could speak like Remus when Remus forgets himself and Wales rushes into his voice and bends it into strange little loops and vowels.

Sirius wishes he could bottle up light. To keep for himself or to send to Remus, he’s not sure.

 

* * *

 

The first evening at Hogwarts, fresh from the start of term feast and the Sorting, Sirius learns that Andromeda had her baby three months ago.

“Dear Merlin,” says Sirius to the others who are tucking into their beds, barely bothering to strip off their robes and stumble into pyjamas. Remus changes in the nook beside his bed, but Sirius can see a new set of scratches along his back, messily healed. He almost forgets what he’s saying.

“What’s the matter, Padfoot?” demands James sleepily. “Because if that letter you’re holding is anything short of a note from Lily expounding upon her incredible desire to go to Hogsmeade with me, I do not care.”

“’Dromeda named her daughter _Nymphadora_ ,” he tells them.

Remus grunts. “It’s a pretty name. Where’s the problem?”

“Where’s the problem?” cries Sirius. “Can you imagine people calling you Nymphadora? And what about the child – she won’t be able to say her own name until she’s ten! It’s a continuation of the Black family travesty of name-giving. I had a hard enough time getting my mouth around ‘Sirius’. Poor Regulus – little bint – half bit his tongue off when he was three.”

“Well, it’s not really following your family tradition, is it?” says Peter.

Sirius looks up from the parchment he’s been holding.

“All the Blacks you hate are named after stars and constellations and galaxies. I may not be the sharpest, but even I know that Nymphadora isn’t a constellation. We would’ve learned it by now in astronomy,” explains Peter, very matter-of-factly.

“He has a point,” adds Remus. Sirius had thought he’d gone to sleep, but apparently a Moony can’t resist an academic debate, no matter how stuffed with chocolate éclairs that Moony happens to be.

“Nymphadora means ‘gift of the nymphs’, derived from classical mythology,” Remus says in his Teacher Voice. “After the Renaissance northern Europeans decided that nymphs were the equivalent of their elven lore, so ‘gift of the elves’. Often in Elf stories, the ‘gift’ elves would leave for humans would be a trick they played, stealing human babies and replacing them with infant elves. The switched children were called changelings.” He smiles, hard to see in the darkness, but Sirius is looking for it. “Not very Black of her at all, suggesting her daughter is a changeling. If elves did exist somewhere, I’d bet they would be treated as subhuman filth by all the blood supremacists.”

“He’s got you there,” mumbles James, face in his pillow. Sirius scowls.

“Plus,” adds Remus, sounding smug, “you can always shorten it to Dora, which I think is a lovely name.”

Sirius throws a pillow at him.

For a long time there is just breathing, and the soft sound of wind through the trees so far away in the Forbidden Forest and mosquitoes bumping off their repellent charms on the window.

“Say, your family don’t have any moon names, do they?” Remus whispers. “Because then we’d have to change mine.”

“Not a single one. You’re the only Moony.” Sirius likes the way he can draw out the middle of the name, make it long and silly and something strange in his chest. Or maybe that’s the éclairs.

“Remus.”

A soft snore.

“Remus, give me back my pillow!”

 

* * *

 

The first thing he says to Madam Pomfrey is, “Cover up the mirror.”

It’s dark outside and at first that throws Remus off, but there is a candle glowing by his hospital bed, throwing light into the little space under the drapes. The mirror is supposed to show him that he’s human. It’s a testament to how badly off he is that Pomfrey complies right away.

From what he saw before the cloth slid over the reflection, his face has been slit open so you can see his teeth and jaw. Around it is red and swollen, and his hair is gone in some places, hopefully thanks to Pomfrey needing a better look at his bruised skull and not the wolf’s claws.

And that’s just above his neck. There are many aches, a lot of them a post-healing echo that’s more his body in shock than the injury Pomfrey has mended. Remus tries not to think about what her priorities have been if she could so easily ignore his mangled face.

“I had to spend the morning stabilizing you. Hardly any real healing; your body couldn’t take it.”

This is what Remus likes about the matron. She will tell him what is wrong with him, and he doesn’t even have to ask. Mam and Dad always try to keep the extent of it from him.

“So I’m a bit behind. I’ll get to your face in a minute. Don’t touch anything.”

As if his fingers can move on their own accord right about now. When he was eleven and first came into this room and into her care, she put a slight paralysis spells on him, but soon discovered there was no need. When the pain’s really bad he can’t move, and the rest of the time willpower is enough to keep still.

“There won’t be a scar on your face,” she tells him, doing something with an arm he cannot feel. Her spells worm their way into his chest cavity and probe around. It’s a rather horrible sensation. “You must have slammed your head against something sharp. A corner of one of the tables, maybe. But it wasn’t werewolf inflicted, so I’ll be able to knit it up. I wanted to leave it be for a while, in case you touched it at all. Let the Dark Creature’s essence drain away.

It’s good that it won’t scar. It means fewer questions, and Remus really can’t stand the scars. He won’t mourn the loss of this one.

“You gave us a bit of a fright, Mr. Lupin. Even the Headmaster came by earlier.”

“Sorry,” croaks Remus. Then, “Dumbledore was here?”

“ _Professor_ Dumbledore, Mr. Lupin. Yes, he was. There was no reason for further concern after you stabilized, but he insisted.”

“Pardon,” says Remus faintly.

“Sleep, Mr. Lupin.”

It’s dawn when she finally lets him go, and Remus is rather surprised that she does. In previous years Pomfrey’s kept him an extra day for much lesser things.

Maybe she’s just tired. She studies him and Remus tries to look a little less frail. He really is fine, he’s got all his body parts, and his face is just a little tender. Pomfrey’s eyes are bloodshot and tired and there is blood on her apron. She waves her wand in a quick, efficient scourgify. The skin around her eyes has that softness to it that only dawn after a sleepless night can bring. It reminds Remus a little of Sirius, who he sometimes finds perched on the windowsill at half past four, watching the sky go blue-green.

“Go,” says Pomfrey finally, brushing her palm along the length of her wand, eyes on the windows. “I trust you’ll be well taken care of.”

He doesn’t wait for her to change her mind.

 

* * *

 

Sirius is waiting in the torchlit corridor. As soon as Remus shuts the door to the Hospital Wing all the way, Sirius whips off James’s Invisibility Cloak and jumps to his feet. His mouth is slightly parted like he wants to speak, but for a moment he’s too distracted to do so.

Remus stands, swaying, and waits.

“We didn’t know how long you’d be,” Sirius whispers, eyes roaming over Remus’s body, even the parts where Remus knows his robes cover the presence of bandages. “James was going to keep watch, but I said I’d do it.” He takes a step closer. “ _Moony._ ”

He says it, Remus thinks, in the voice his Mam would use to take the Lord’s name in vain. Like asking _how_ and _why_ all at once.

“It was just a bad one, Sirius,” Remus says. His voice rasps without his consent. “They happen.”

James would have let it go, but not Sirius; never Sirius.

“They’ve never been this bad before,” he says, so fucking confident. He’s right of course. Remus sighs and shrugs it off – not literally; twelve hours ago he had a punctured lung and a shoulder ripped out of its socket. Sighing and shrugging are far-off luxuries, as far as Remus is concerned.

He tries a smile and winces.

“Well, good gentleman, why don’t you help me down the stairs.”

“But of course, gentle maiden of the moon!” cries Sirius, slipping an arm under Remus’s, and wrapping around his shoulder. It feels strange when that arm doesn’t pull away as suddenly as it comes, or attempt to throw Remus somewhere unpleasant, like the lake or into a knot of cat-fighting Ravenclaws or Pete’s Christmas pudding. It just stays there, and it’s probably just Sirius’s luck that he chose the good arm and is gripping the good ribs, but right now Remus is not about to hold luck against him.

“Someday you will insult me when I have full use of my limbs,” he threatens as Sirius steers them deftly down the steps and through a hidden passageway he and James discovered last Sunday. “Then you’ll be sorry.”

“Whatever you say, Moony.”

Neither of them can imagine Remus actually getting into a fistfight. Sirius laughs his muted, night time laugh. It’s a soft, warm chuckle and much too close.

“Oh, piss off, Padfoot.”

James and Peter send up a joking cheer when Remus and Sirius stumble through the door.

“Hail, the returning soldiers!”

Remus laughs with them, even if it does jar his sensitive ribs. He seats himself gingerly on his bed.

“What time is it?”

“Five. You’ve got a good four hours before the first class, which I suggest you both use sleeping,” says James.

“All I do up in the Hospital Wing is sleep,” grumbles Remus, but he kicks off his trainers and pulls back his coverlet anyway.

“We’ll get you breakfast,” Peter promises. “Loads of it.”

Remus groans.

“Just porridge for me, thanks.”

“Get what you think I’d want, Prongs. Don’t let Peter slip in any peppermint humbugs, I hate the things.”

“As if I’d ever!” says Peter in mock offense.

Remus wakes up to someone thundering down the stairs of the boys’ dormitories, swearing up and down. It’s probably Frank Longbottom, a fifth year boy who’s generally very responsible but is always running late for things.

Remus looks over to the other beds. Peter and James’s, the furthest away, are empty tangles of quilt and sheets. To his left, Sirius has the drapes open. He’s staring up at the scarlet canopy. Remus can see the whites of his eyes glinting in the shadows cast by the drapes.

“Sorry about the mirror,” Sirius rasps. “I thought it would be helpful. For…you know.” It’s strange how still Sirius lies. He’s hardly ever still. Remus, feeling a bit better himself, starts to worry in earnest. He wonders when Sirius last slept. Ate. Did he go to classes yesterday?

He doubts Sirius will give a straight answer if he asks.

“No. I’m grateful for the mirror. This was just a bad one.”

“How many bad ones are there going to be?” asks Sirius, voice suddenly a little too loud for the silent dormitories.

Remus doesn’t answer.

“Do you not know? Do you not want to say?” He’s beginning to sound angry now, this boy in the bed next to his.

“Sirius, it’s not like that.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything more, but he stares. His eyes are very gray with a silvery sheen. Their questions are loud and desperate and strange.

Remus sighs, draws his knees up to his chest. He didn’t change before he collapsed into bed and it feels very strange to be wearing robes. They get caught under him and twisted in the sheets.

“As I get older, as I grow, the Werewolf I become does as well. A grown man knows how to be violent better than a toddler does, and he’s more effective at it. It’s the same with the wolf.”

They can hear the far-off beating of wings. Mail has arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast. It is a September morning, warm and bright.

“Sirius,” Remus says, breaking the not-quite-silence. There’s a question he wants to ask before Peter and James return to wake them up. “What did Madam Pomfrey mean when she said there had been ‘cause for concern’? Why did Dumbledore come?”

He feels that familiar stab of guilt. It always seems as if Dumbledore knows that he told them. And yes, James and Sirius had guessed and it was Peter who set them on the right track, but Remus _did_ tell them after explicitly promising that he would not. He can still remember the cold of that room, the snow outside, their breaths hanging frozen in front of them.

It is one of the things he thinks of when he summons a Patronus. The way their breaths sparkled, and how terrified and free he was.

Sirius is not answering his question.

“I know you were probably there, under the cloak. You saw it better than I did. I was capsized.”

Remus is treated to a flash of a grin.

“’Capsized’? Moony, you’re talking crazy,” he teases, even though Remus knows Sirius knows exactly what Remus means. Then he sobers. There is another pause, but this one feels like Sirius gathering his breath.

“What Pomfrey meant is that when she found you in the Shack, you weren’t breathing. She finally got you to the Hospital Wing, where you promptly went into cardiac arrest before she could give you the potions to replenish the blood you’d lost. Your lips were very, very blue, Moony. One of the nurses went for Dumbledore. That’s why he was there. There were other injuries too. I can’t remember them so well.

“Oh,” says Remus. “I’m…very sorry you had to see that.”

Sirius shrugs, an interesting contortion for someone lying down.

“Not a problem, Moony-maiden. Just get your beauty sleep. Blue really is _not_ your colour.” He gasps when Remus rolls his eyes. “Oh, you just don’t appreciate my doting care.”

Remus is casting about for his wand to retaliate when James and Peter quietly push open the door.

“Shit,” says James when he sees they’re awake, “We were hoping we would at least have the chance to throw ice water on you both.”

“Or Lily’s cat,” adds Peter.

James sighs, hand to his chest. “As tempting as that is, Wormtail, I am wooing the lady, and should not throw her pets.”

“You’ll just do it anyway, when you get a bit bored next Sunday,” says Peter pragmatically. Remus has to admit that he’s probably right. Maybe he should apologize to Lily in advance.

“That cat’s boring anyway. Bacon?”

“All mine!” cries Sirius, bounding off his bed.

“How are you doing, Remus?” asks James, who knows how to have this conversation like a bloody sane person, instead of calling him horrific girly nicknames and staring across the strange gulf that exists between two beds. Peter offers up toast, porridge with spiced apples in, and a flask of pumpkin juice.

“Didn’t even eat any of yours on the way up, though I did snag some muffins for myself.”

“I’m honoured, Pete,” Remus says drily, but they all know he’s grateful. “Thanks James, I’m doing a lot better, or so I’m told. It sounds like you three got the worst of it. I was unconscious.”

Sirius and James exchange glances. It’s one of those glances that make Remus and Peter wonder if James and Sirius haven’t developed some sort of personal Legilimency, and can read each other’s minds at lightning speed.

For no reason really, Remus flushes a little at the idea that James can see everything he and Sirius said and did the night before. He can feel it on his neck and wishes there were a way to override the body’s impulse. But since when has his body listened to him, and he doesn’t just mean the Werewolf. There are other things too, Perfectly Natural things, as some would say.

“Well,” says James, “You weren’t totally out. You just weren’t aware of what was going on, really.”

“It wasn’t as freaky as I’d think it would be,” says Peter, cramming his History of Magic textbook into his bag. “’Cause you were so obviously…you, I guess. Just….”

“A bit capsized,” laughs Sirius. “Or so he says. I might want to try those potions Pomfrey gives you,” he tells Remus. “They look even better than gillyweed!”

“Keep dreaming, Sirius,” say Remus and James together.

 


	11. In which bad things happen at noon, too

Remus doesn’t forget Lily’s letter from the summer, though he never mentions it to her. He’s not particularly certain if this is more out of respect for her obvious desire not to talk about it or that fear Lily Evans seems to inspire in a rather large portion of the Hogwarts male population, especially in Gryffindor House.

As most Gryffindors can enjoy a clash of wills like others might enjoy flowers and fresh Honeydukes fudge, Lily has also lately received some expressions of affection (if that’s what you wanted to call it), most especially from James. Remus can understand this objectively, but when he looks at girls, he prefers ones that he’s not already friends with. Not that Lily is friends with James.

He wonders too if she knows she’s making herself a challenge, which is exactly what James has never, ever been able to lose interest in.

So between to James and the letter, which is back in Wales in a drawer, Remus is quite aware of Lily Evans. He notices Olive Caradan as well, and pays special attention to the other housemates from Muggle parents. It makes him think too much of Mam, but he does it anyway.

September passes without much incident, if you can even say that about a month at Hogwarts. There are duels and detentions and absolutely horrific amounts of homework that Remus will be teased for a million years if he ever admits to enjoying.

October seems to be going smoothly enough as well, with the exception of yet another terrible transformation. Again Sirius stays close by in the Hospital Wing, under the Cloak. He gets in so much trouble for playing hooky the next day that there’s no question that he never left Remus alone.

It shouldn’t be comforting. It’s his friends getting in trouble for him – Sirius, who got a Howler for it – is in enough trouble as it is. But when Remus protests, his own words sound so half-hearted Remus nearly winces.

This peace doesn’t last, unfortunately, and its demise begins with another attempt by James for the hand of the fair Miss Evans.

“How wonderful to discover you here!” says James loudly when Lily walks out of Greenhouse Two with several bags of first year potions ingredients – probably a favour for Slughorn. Lily seems to actually like the Professor, which Remus supposes is a lot easier when one is at the top of his class with apparent ease.

“Now is not the time, Potter,” says Lily, voice very flat. Remus doesn’t dare look across the twenty or so feet of wind-rippled grass that separates them; he imagines she’s glaring.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Remus says to Sirius, who looks at him like he’s got three heads. Remus shrugs. It’s true, actually, and Remus isn’t the only one who thinks so: half the student body is strewn out on the lawn in little knots of black robes and bobbing pointed hats, soaking up the sunshine before the Scottish autumn starts in earnest.

“Why does it have to be her? Why not someone more fun?” Sirius hisses to Peter and Remus, glaring at the less-than-enamoured Lily, who is doing her best to edge away from James. “There are loads of girls at this school. At least he could have the decency to choose one who’d like to go on kitchen runs or something. Evans is nearly as buttoned up as _you_ Remus.”

“I am _not_ buttoned up! Why are you even using a buttons analogy? It’s supposed to be ‘straight-laced’ or something of the kind,” protests Remus, cheeks hot. He feels he is possibly proving a point. A point he will likely disprove sometime soon, in some dank forbidden and forgotten passageway with a vile of something illicit up the sleeve of his robe, but nonetheless.

“I’ve never even seen you look at anybody,” Sirius says, offhand like it’s a fact of life, and like he hasn’t just judged Remus for sudden topic changes just moments before.

Maybe, to answer Sirius’s unspoken question, it’s because Remus is very good at looking without being seen. He doesn’t say that, of course. He’s not utterly sure he could. Instead he gives Sirius a look over. Tall, even at fourteen. Dark hair that’s definitely long now, but in some sort of rock star way. Less Elvis, more Celestina Warbeck circa ‘73. He holds himself like a prince and he probably always will. Every moment Sirius is fidgeting somehow, twisting the only piece of jewellery he wears nowadays, that ring of onyx and gold with the family crest in the centre.

He’s good to look at, the best of the four of them in Remus’s opinion, though James’s personality is less moody and apt to change at the slightest thing, so he pulls more of the girls’ attention. Even if he is awful to Lily.

Peter and Sirius, oblivious to Remus’s thoughts, are studying her.

“Really,” Sirius is in the middle of saying, “he could do better. What about…” he casts his eyes across the lawn, at the various little groups of students. Laughing girls clutching at their chests, older boys with the sleeves of their robes rolled up to expose newly muscled forearms and those large hands with the hard knuckles underneath. “…Mckinnon. She’s wild.” It’s strange how he says it, drawling and bored.

“Oi, Mckinnon!” shouts Peter, jumping on the bandwagon now that Sirius has pointed her out. She turns with that sly grin of hers, looking up from her group of friends. When they’ve got her attention Peter doesn’t know what to do with it, so Sirius lets off a long wolf-whistle that echoes across the grounds. A few sixth year Hufflepuff boys pause in tossing a quaffle to clap and hoot. Remus blushes. Sirius is so bloody loud and confident and, he’ll easily admit, fairly obnoxious. Marlene blows the three of them a kiss and winks at Remus when Sirius turns away. He quickly drops his eyes.

If he had a type, he supposes it would be more like Marlene. But it’s not as if he’s picky. He lets his eyes sweep across the teenagers sprawled all over the lawn, takes them all in, so long as they’re his age or older, girls and boys alike. Remus has never been able to figure out how people just…choose one gender to appreciate. Sex is sex, isn’t it? Just nerve endings, when you come down to it. How does it matter so much who touches them?

Not the best thoughts to have now. Not the best thoughts to have anytime, not with Sirius standing so close, as if the concept of personal space has never crossed his mind.

They’re back on the subject of Lily Evans, who’s currently red in the face and reaching for her wand.

“I can see the appeal,” Peter says, his eyes studying her long red hair, the hint of the curve of her hips through her austere school robes.

“Wormtail you prat, you’re as bad as Moaning Myrtle,” says Sirius, nudging him in the ribs.

“Can’t blame me for what nature gave me,” Peter sing-songs back, rocking on his heels. “I can’t be as creepy as Myrtle,” he argues. “I’d have to die first, at least.”

“I just don’t see it,” Sirius says, squinting at Lily. Remus blinks. Even he can understand the attraction, though she is incredibly _not_ his type of girl, and much more his type of friend. There is a disturbing suspicion that she’s a bit like Sirius and James only with less reckless boyishness and more cunning. But really, Sirius doesn’t see it at all?

Remus hopes Sirius isn’t genetically programmed to go for insane girls, or worse, cousins.

“Sure you’re not just jealous, Padfoot?” teases Peter. Remus privately thinks that if Sirius is jealous of anyone, it would be Lily who’s been getting more and more of James’s attention since third year.

To be honest, it’s hard to imagine Sirius with anyone at all. He’s pulled loads of times, even once when they were first years for chrissake. But he’s never gone with anybody. Girls whisper about how aloof and handsome he is.

They’ve obviously never shared a dorm with him, never caught him in the act of transfiguring the last bar of soap into a sea urchin, never seen him belt out bad pop music, Muggle and Wizarding alike, at four in the morning to wake them all up because he’s got a great idea and do they think House Elves can be trained to dance the cancan? He pours pumpkin juice in his tea instead of milk, puts mustard on his pork instead of the totally acceptable apple sauce option, and conjures powdered sugar for his pasties. They don’t know _any_ of that.

“She’s a bore,” drawls Sirius, finally bothering to respond. “Look, she’s trying to get away again. At least it’s slightly more fun when she starts shouting and hexing him. But she’s friends with _Snivillus_.”

Trying to puzzle out Sirius Black’s mysterious dating life whilst following this inane conversation gives Remus nothing but a headache and a remarkably grumpy mood, which is only heightened when Remus sees who’s coming striding across the lawn.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmurs. A pack of Slytherins, the really nasty ones who seem to feel like turning a school house into a gang is totally viable, are on the move across the grounds.

“What, are they looking for a better patch of grass than the rest of us? Need the optimal cushioning for their stupid pureblood arses?” demands Sirius, not too quietly. The Sirius, Remus, and Peter wander closer to James and Lily, automatically regrouping.

Remus seems to be the only one who hears Lily hiss, “Shit,” when Snape comes into view among the many figures. She slings her school bag over her shoulder and strides off across the grass, bypassing her friends and making for the vague shape of the Whomping Willow in the distance.

Distracted from the scene in front of him, Remus opens his mouth. What he’s going to say, he’s got no idea. “Don’t go close to that tree, it hates me and will probably hate you by association, and then it’ll take a swing at your face”?

“Watch out, Evans,” calls Sirius, twirling his wand lazily. He’s still facing the coterie Slytherins who are now headed towards their little crowd, but his eyes are on Lily. “That’s a Whomping Willow. Terribly nasty.”

She shows him two fingers but she does swerve – thank Merlin’s bollocks – and heads back towards the castle, presumably to replenish Slughorn’s potions stores. Sirius’s eyes catch his just for a second; not nearly long enough for Remus to convey his thanks.

These Slytherins are definitely that rougher crowd; there’s Evan Rosier at the front, a seventh year now with a lot of muscle, and skinny Wilkes, with his gaunt face and nervous hands, always on the lookout for a bit of blackmail. After them comes Snape, who they will never admit is probably the mastermind of half the curses that get thrown at them – the nasty, in-the-Hospital-Wing-for-a-week type.

Lestrange is there too; back at the Black household arrangements are already being held for his marriage to Bellatrix. They’ll make a horrific couple, but Sirius can amuse himself with the fact that Bella’s French is terrible. He hopes they vacation at the Lestrange family Chateaux in the Alps very frequently, just to annoy her.

“I think that went well,” says James, stepping up to them. “What’s Snape up to? And the others?”

Sirius’s lips suddenly go thin. “Regulus is with them,” he snaps. “I don’t want to watch him being all chummy with those evil gits. I’ll lose my lunch.”

James shrugs, obviously reluctant to pass up such a good chance to bother Snape. “Alright then,” he says slowly.

Despite Sirius’s misgivings, they don’t go back up to the school. Instead they stand close together watching the way groups go tense and quiet when the Slytherins get too near. Someone in the crowd shouts out something and there’s an eruption of harsh laughter.

A Ravenclaw fourth year stands up, gesturing madly; Remus recognizes him as Alice Shepperd’s latest boyfriend. Alice, and the group of girls she’s with, Marlene included, turn to look. Alice stands. One of her friends puts a hand on her arm, trying to pull her down again. Marlene stands too, and she and Alice stride towards the growing argument. A few other Ravenclaws have joined in now, and the boys with the quaffle are still and nervous. Even the kids down on the shore of the lake are shading their eyes to see what the commotion is.

It’s quiet. The sun is unseasonably hot.

Remus can’t tell who throws the first spell. There are at least ten people, so many wands in hand. There is a crack, and then another, and the shouting begins. Most people surge towards the fight, trying to get a better look. Alice and Marlene are caught in the thick of it with the Ravenclaws; Remus can just barely see them through the sudden chaos. Frank Longbottom runs past them and the crowd opens for him, letting them see right to the centre of the fight.

“The mudblood’s fighting back!” shouts a vicious looking girl in a prefect’s badge.

Remus, James and Peter look at Sirius.

“Let’s go,” he says through gritted teeth. They dart after Frank, who’s shielding Alice while she screams at three burly sixth years, each twice her size.

“What are you thinking, hexing him, you filthy pricks!” she shouts.

“Alice! Alice, stop yelling and look out,” grits out Frank, blocking a jinx sent her way.

“Don’t talk, blood traitor!” shouts Mulciber, levelling his wand on Frank.

“Shut your fat gob,” says Frank.

“Someone get the Headmaster!” cries a young girl caught up in the fray. Marlene snatchers her robes and pulls her out.

“Go! Get Dumbledore!” she says, but the girl doesn’t manage to stumble further than the fringes of the fight. People are pressing in on all sides, shouting and cursing. The wide, sunny day is suddenly a maelstrom of twisting black robes and pressing hands and the smell charred earth. Alice is standing over Frank now, who’s been hit with a jelly-legs jinx, from the looks of things. It’s absurd, a kids’ jinx used with childish malice and adult reasoning. Alice’s face is hard and hunted and she looks ready to fly at anyone who gets too close.

The four of them push on to the centre, where the Slytherins are packed together. Some of them have put their hoods up, obscuring their faces. Sirius’s eyes dart over them frantically, looking for his brother. Regulus is only thirteen, and small for his age. He seems to, as always, have slipped between the cracks.

“Look out!” James shouts, dragging them down by their necks to avoid a jet of fire.

“What the fuck?” Sirius shouts. “What do you lot think you’re up to? This isn’t your pretty little pureblood country cottage where you can do whatever you please.”

“Oh, so you’re not a pureblood then, Black? Been disowned now, like your slut of a cousin?” shouts Rosier. Sirius lunges for him, ready to get his hands around his fat neck. James hauls him back, just in time to miss the red streak of a stunning spell that rips through the air.

“You think you’re so safe here at Hogwarts?” demands Rosier.

Remus grabs Sirius’s robes.

“Let’s get out of here; find a teacher,” he urges.

Rosier laughs. “Oh, right, as if we care about teachers and school. You stupid half-blood, you’re not good enough to spit on.”

Sirius hexes him, aiming for his face. Lestrange blocks it, waving a taunting finger.

“Sirius would you stop it! I can take more than that. I have _taken_ more than that.”

Rosier isn’t even listening to Remus anymore. He just looks at Sirius. “You can’t stay on that side forever, Black. You can have your little fun as the prodigal son, but you have the blood, and that’s where loyalty lies. At least your brother understands that.”

“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT MY BROTHER!”

Sirius lunges again, and this time they’re not fast enough to catch him. He’s hit with a stunner out of the crowd and goes down.

Remus’s vision goes white. It’s very curious. He can’t feel his fingers or his face, or hear the shouts around him. He raises his wand. Somewhere in his mind he is aware that McGonagall is sprinting across the grass, screaming at them. Students scramble away from the fight, in a hurry not to be implicated in something like this.

Just as Remus opens his mouth to calmly utter the incantation, the Ravenclaw boy, Alice’s boyfriend, dashes over to help James hold up Sirius. He gets in front of Remus’s wand arm, and Remus has to whip his hand up to send a curse spiralling into the bright sky.

“You idiot!” he shouts, horrified, as the world slams back into place, loud and strange. “Watch out!”

The Ravenclaw turns at his shout, mouth open to yell back or to apologize, Remus doesn’t get to find out. Rosier sees the opening, and the Ravenclaw can’t turn fast enough. Rosier says a spell, loud and sure.

“ _Imperio_!”

The boy turns slowly, eyes dead and a little smile on his face. Remus and everyone around him stop to watch, horrified. He’s certain he must have misheard.

“But that’s an Unforgivable,” whimpers Peter. A girl in the crowd screams.

“The rules of the old age are over,” intones Rosier, but sweat is rising on his pompous face from carrying the spell. The Ravenclaw raises his wand, not towards Remus, but turns it in and presses against his own face.

“EVAN ROSIER!” screams a voice full of stone and fury, and suddenly McGonagall is blasting them all apart. She’s shocked too, eyes wide. “ _Expelliaramus!_ ” she calls out, and Rosier’s wand shoots into the air. James snatches it up fast, before any of the Slytherins can make a move for it. It tingles sickeningly in his palm. The Ravenclaw boy’s eyes roll back in his head and he drops. Alice catches his head before it strikes the grass.

Even most of the Slytherins back away. More teachers pour out onto the lawn, and Dumbledore sweeps down with them, thunder on his face. Sirius moans in the grass and Remus drops to his knees, all risk forgotten. Soon it’s just them and Rosier, with Lestrange still at his side, glaring daggers at McGonagall. A few hexed Slytherins lay about in the grass. Alice and Marlene are off to the side, staring at the fallen boy, faces white.

“NEVER AGAIN—NOT IN THIS SCHOOL—EXPELLED, NO QUESTION,” chokes McGonagall, so red in the face she looks like she’s going to start hexing them herself.

Remus’s ears are ringing. Everything is going far off again.

Lestrange spits in the grass. Madame Pomfrey races up to the Ravenclaw, beckons Alice and Marlene to help Frank get to his feet. She conjures five stretchers, which two of the hexed Slytherins wave off with snarls, stumbling off into their groups of friends who quickly whisk them away.

Flitwick tries to get Sirius up on a stretcher, but Remus looks up, still blind with rage, and snarls out something. His face is so feral that Flitwick stumbles back.

A hand lands on Remus’s shoulder. James.

“Put him on the stretcher.” Sirius moans again. “You have to calm down, Remus.”

“Leave boys, now,” McGonagall orders. “Go with him to the hospital wing if you choose, but go!” Dumbledore arrives, face darker than they’ve ever seen it.

James and Peter shield Remus from view and levitate Sirius onto the stretcher, which glides off towards the Hospital Wing. They trot along quickly to follow it, their hands on Remus’s back and shoulders. He shakes them off, vicious, but together they mount the steps out of the noonday sun and into the darkness of the castle, Flitwick trailing behind with Alice and Marlene, with Frank on a stretcher of his own.

The stretchers avoid the main hallways, but still there are students who see them who gasp and run forward, only to be warned off by a teacher or a prefect. Remus hardly notices them.

In the empty Hospital Wing Flitwick levitates Sirius into a bed and quickly casts the counter-charm. Gray eyes flutter. Flitwick hurries off to tend to Frank as Pomfrey rushes in with the Ravenclaw boy. The four of them are left alone.

“Strange to see it all from this angle,” murmurs Sirius. “Remus, I think things are going topsy turvy. Shouldn’t you be in the bed?”

Remus tries to smile. It comes out more like a grimace.

“You alright there, mate?” asks James.

“Terrific,” drawls Sirius. “Where’s the motherfucker Rosier?”

“Expelled,” gulps Peter, blue eyes wide. His hands are shaking.

“Sit down a minute, Pete,” says James, patting the end of Sirius’s bed. “I’m sure Padfoot doesn’t mind.”

Sirius shakes his head and Peter flops down gratefully.

“Actually, Peter can have it. I want out of the bed,” Sirius says, trying ineffectively to get up.

“Down, Mr. Black!” cries Madame Pomfrey from across the room, where she’s casting hurried spells.

James snickers. “She knows how to deal with you, Padfoot. Heal, boy.”

“Shut up, you arse. I’m an invalid.” He rolls his eyes, but he does lie back down. Lowering his voice, he asks, “What did Rosier do?”

“The Imperious Curse,” whispers James.

“What even _is_ that?” asks Peter, a tremor in his voice. “I thought he was going to turn on us, but then he – he….” Peter presses a finger to his own neck, under his jaw.

“No one at school should be able to cast that. Rosier’s underage, but they might still send him to Azkaban.”

“Bloody hell,” Remus murmurs to himself.

“Good afternoon, all,” says a voice from the door. Dumbledore stands there. His face is placid as ever but his eyes are troubled. They all gravitate towards him on instinct. “Poppy, is Mr. Boot at all ready to discuss this?” asks Dumbledore softly.

“Frankly, Headmaster, he is not. The boy’s just been put under the Imperious Curse! He needs rest and recovery, not questions.”

“I trust your expertise, Poppy,” Dumbledore says with a faint smile. “The rest of you, if you’re at all able, please follow me to my office.

Madam Pomfrey opens her mouth, presumably to protest, but Sirius drags himself out of bed. He’s still swaying a little, but Remus supports him on one side, James on the other, while Peter gathers their things. None of them are going without one of the others, that much is obvious.

Across the room Frank struggles to his feet with Alice’s help, and all but the unconscious Ravenclaw follow Dumbledore through the castle.

 

* * *

 

There are candles burning in Dumbledore’s office by the time they all file out, down the spiral staircase and past the familiar gargoyle statues. Even James and Peter are subdued.

“I think we’ve missed dinner,” says Frank quietly. Remus listens hard.

“No,” he says, “It’s still going on.”

“What are the Prewetts doing here?” asks Alice, stopping suddenly in the passageway.

“Hey Gid, hey Fab,” says Marlene. She’s in sixth year, they’re in seventh, but they seem to hang out together. The twins, normally so restless and ready with grins, just nod to her. Their hair is muted ginger in the torchlight.

“What are you here for?” Marlene asks in that low voice of hers.

“We need to talk to Dumbledore,” Gideon says. The younger Gryffindors glance back at the closed entrance.

“You’ll have to wait,” says James, exhausted and a little hysterical around the edges. “The Minister of Magic just went up.”

“We’ll wait,” Fabian says, apparently unsurprised by that bit of news. “You lot should get down to dinner.”

They nod, too tired to argue. Marlene hangs back. Remus tries not to listen, he really does, but his hearing is too good and the castle echoes too loudly.

“What are you two up to?” she asks. “You’re not serious, are you? I know you’re frustrated, but it’s silly. You’re so close to graduation; you can take your NEWTS this year.”

Remus gives in and glances back down the long corridor.

Gideon smiles and cups Marlene’s face.

“Our choice, Marlene. Don’t tell me you’re not itching to be with your sister right now.” She sighs. If they say any more, it’s lost in the clatter of their footsteps and the low hiss of torches as they turn the corner.

“What was that about?” whispers Peter once they can no longer see the Prewetts and Marlene.

Alice, normally the gossip, shrugs. “No idea,” she murmurs. “I’ve had enough of talking about serious things for the night.”

It’s late for dinner, but the Great Hall is still packed. They don’t have a chance to talk among themselves; nearly before they sit down they’re mobbed by students on all sides.

Alice is completely overwhelmed by Ravenclaws asking after her boyfriend in the Hospital Wing; someone jeers at Sirius for getting stunned, but ten others congratulate him. Peter, always glad for attention, looks happy enough to recount what he remembers, but he shakes his head and looks ill when people ask about Rosier’s Unforgivable Curse. There’s a rumour spreading that he’s fled the school, and another that he used the Cruciatus. Half the students don’t even know what an Unforgivable is, and lots of strange theories are being circulated. The six of them barely pick at their food.

Finally, James has had enough. He stands, claps his hands, and ushers all of them – not just their group, but Frank and Alice as well – up the stairs and away from the clinging crowds. Anyone who thinks to follow receives a full blast of Sirius Black’s glare and, most effectively, this creeping feeling that they are being subtly threatened by Remus Lupin, of all people.

Everyone follows James without a word or a question. He has a talent for that, and leads them straight to the kitchens.

“We can get a quieter meal in here,” says James, standing in front of the familiar painting with its ticklish pear.

“I’ll bite: what’s behind the still life? Forbidden passage to a vacation in Barcelona? Hogwarts wine cellars?” says Alice wearily, but there’s a smile at the corner of her mouth for the first time since this afternoon. It feels impossibly far away. Remus rubs at his eyes, feels Sirius’s hand light on his back. It’s a feather of a touch, ready to run off as if it’s never been there in the first place at the slightest provocation. Remus sighs and leans into the comfort as much as he dares.

“Listen to that, Wormtail. Kitchen virgins,” says James.

It occurs to Remus how strange they must all sound. There was a time when his greatest goal was to be normal, but there’s probably no hope at this point. Not with friends like this.

“This is where the House Elves prepare the meals,” explains Remus. Frank scrubs at his dark hair.

“Neat,” he says finally. “I always did wonder where you lot got all that food for your birthdays.”

They look at each other, an unspoken agreement to keep the tunnels to Hogsmeade and thus their supply of Butterbeer and Honeydukes’ sweets a mystery for the ages. James reaches a hand up and tickles the pear, which swings open almost immediately. They check the hall and file inside, Remus and Sirius bringing up the rear.

“Wow,” says Alice, “I’ve never seen one before.” She’s looking at the rows of House Elves which are breaking rank from dish-cleaning duty to race over to them.

“Do they always bring you chocolate?” she asks.

“Er, not really. Just Remus,” explains Peter. If anything Alice and Frank look more perplexed than before. Remus, taking the chocolate offered to him with thanks, feels a little empathetic. He remembers what it’s like to be caught up in the madness of his friends’ world without being prepared whatsoever for it.

“Does Mistress be wanting chocolates?” a house elf asks Alice.

“Er,” says Alice, looking around. James and Peter are ordering roast beef sandwiches with “a bit of that spicy Romanian mustard, if you’ve got any left”.

“Spicy mustard?” asks Frank with vague interest, drifting over to join them.

Remus shoves his hands in his pockets. “What do you like, Alice?” Over Alice’s shoulder Sirius looks on, eyes dark and unreadable. “They can make anything within reason, but we don’t like to ask for much without giving them advance warning.”

“Scrambled…scrambled eggs?” Alice says, staring at Remus. He shifts uncomfortably.

“Ask them, I’m pants at making eggs.”

Of course, the House Elves are already racing to the giant frying pan lying over a small inferno, but it gets another smile out of Alice. She moves off, gravitating towards Frank.

Sirius makes a soft scoffing noise from somewhere behind him.

“You’ll have her falling at your feet if you keep that up.”

Remus is genuinely shocked. He raises an eyebrow and suspects a teasing motive. Sirius _has_ been rather subdued.

“I don’t think I’ll have anyone going mad for me anytime soon,” he says with a crooked grin.

“But are you interested?” Sometimes when Sirius gets a thought in his head, he won’t let it go. Better to just go along with it. Remus thinks for a moment, really considers it.

“No interest whatsoever,” he says finally. “Even if I was, she has a boyfriend.”

“Mm, hard to forget,” says Sirius. “Considering we left him in the hospital wing. Chivalrous of you, Moony.”

Remus kicks him, lightly, on the shin. They flash each other quick and tired grins.

“Eat your chocolate,” says Sirius, and they go off to steal some of the sandwiches Frank, James, and Peter are hoarding.

It’s warm in the kitchens, and while it does smell like dishwater and spicy mustard, that’s not a bad thing. Not at all. Sirius imagines what his life would be like if he’d been on the other side of that crowd today, if he’d been just a little more like his baby brother.

It’s so horrific to think about. He almost feels bad for Regulus, that he’s stuck with people like Lestrange and Snape when Sirius has these people; has Remus sitting at his side, trying to be surreptitious about stealing the roast beef slices out of Sirius’s sandwiches. Has enough here to keep him going, always.

 

* * *

 

Remus listens to the other three tossing and turning in the dark. Peter sleeps first, then James, like falling dominos going from one side of the room to the other. He thinks Sirius has gone out too, finally, but then there is a thump and footsteps, just two. There’s not a lot of space between their beds.

“Sirius?” he whispers, and he’s going to feel like a right idiot of Sirius is just getting up for a piss. But he’s not. He parts the curtains of Remus’s bed, stands over him in his pyjamas, dark scarlet silk and his grey eyes glittering in the tiny light.

“Sirius?” Remus whispers again, sitting up slowly. There’s something in the air, something heady and thrumming and strange, that makes this some dream, some play, in which things are possible that wouldn’t be in the daytime.

“Moony,” says Sirius, voice strangled. He raises a hand towards Remus.

“Have you been thinking about what Rosier said? Because that’s…that’s bullocks Sirius, you know it is.” He lifts a hand, looks at the scar that wraps around his ring finger, still there after all these years. “What’s in the blood is just there. It’s not you. It’s never been you.”

Sirius’s breath comes ragged.

“No,” he says slowly. “That’s not…not anymore. I believe you. If you say it. You’re always right.”

“What then, Sirius?”

Something almost happens. Remus doesn’t know what, just _something_.

The urge is sudden and potent, to fist Sirius’s shirt and pull him forcefully down onto the bed, push him under the sheets and let the dark warm heat spread, touch his face, all of him. It’s so strong and vivid that Remus recoils a little.

Sirius’s breath comes fast. But then he straightens, turns, backs away. The curtains fall closed around Remus’s bed and Sirius’s footsteps go quickly to the bathroom. There is no sound of a whispered spell, but candlelight shows under the bathroom door. Sirius is very good at little wandless charms like that, nowadays. The shower comes on.

James snorts in his sleep. Remus carefully, very carefully, closes his drapes, feels the texture of the red velvet very acutely under his fingers.

Once he is fully alone, Sirius completely out of sight, something snaps and Remus comes into his normal, reasonable, buttoned up mind again. It has an effect a bit like jumping into the lake in October, and Remus leans against the headboard, trying not to breathe too loudly and wonders just what the hell just happened.

No thought is forthcoming.

Remus swallows, listens to the noise of the shower. He touches his own hip bones, traces down his thighs to his knees. It’s not a body he’s terribly comfortable with, this one. Too skinny and worn down, too many scars to be on the right side of attractive. But it’s a body. Remus doesn’t feel like it’s the wolf clambering up in him. Hell, it’s nearly new moon. He feels human, so human. Tense all over, yes, and stunned, and trembling with something frustrating and carnal. But quite human.

Remus frowns, fists his hand in his pillow. Breathes out slow almost-whistle through pursed lips and tells himself that he can deal with thinking about this in the morning.

Under the elastic of his pyjama pants the cotton is damp and warm. It’s a sharp scent. Normally he does this before the moon, and even then it feels more like a chore, like medicine.

“Stop thinking,” Remus whispers to himself, wishing he could be more like Sirius who would toss one off without a thought as to why he was doing it, just because it felt good.

And it does feel good, his hand against his cock, drawing it up above the hem of his pyjamas. Remus strokes along the length, harder than he’d meant to. Even if he’d rather take it slow, draw out this strange and inexplicable – no thinking, remember – this thing, his body wants more than he expected.

Remus hisses, pushes his head back against his pillow. The bed is soft and warm and all but swallows him up. He arches out of it, just a little, hips canted up towards his hand. Hair is in his eyes and he can’t bring himself to care, just concentrates on keeping his breathing quiet, under the relentless pounding noise of the shower.

It’s impossible not to think, but it’s not worry or stress that comes to mind. It’s Sirius, it’s always been Sirius, Sirius all around him. Sirius standing folded in those drapes, dark hair sliding across his hard cheekbones, feverish eyes.

The shower is impossibly noisy at night, pounding and splattering obscenely loud in his ears.

Sirius could be in there for a number of reasons; he’s wandered around at night before. When he’s not an insomniac he’s a sleepwalker, which has led to some spectacular times over the last few years.

But he’d looked so awake. Remus wets his palm on his tongue, reaches down again, faster now. Sirius looked a lot of things, a lot of things that make Remus wish, though it scares him a little, that he’d pulled Sirius down after all. And what then?

Remus gives a little groan, cups his balls. He’s going to come soon, so much earlier than he wants to, but there’s no stopping it. Not when Sirius could very well be on the other side of that wall, standing in the shower, dark hair plastered to a white face. Not when it’s so possible, even if just in Remus’s mind, that Sirius is mimicking him; that he’s got his own cock in his hand, his own rhythm to keep.

It’s too easy to imagine. Remus gasps quietly, lets a litany of curses fall from his lips. He’s learned the lines of Sirius too well, without even noticing that he’s been studying. It all rushes together.

Done and panting, Remus lays back, wipes at himself. He lets his mind become fascinated by the sight and feel of the fine sheen of sweat on his skin.

The shower pounds on.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for 1Boo's Changelings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550155) by [greeniron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeniron/pseuds/greeniron)




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